Dark Side of Light
by bwayphantomrose
Summary: Perhaps there was a dark side to Christine that only Erik could bring out. Between the smudged lines of right and wrong, she had always been destined to be the Phantom's bride. She ached for every bit of him. Dark and not fluffy. E/C romance StageMusical.
1. Act I

**A/N: This is my favorite story.**

**Definitely explores that dark side of Erik and Christine's relationship. Everyone always talk about how Raoul was the 'safe' choice, and the good one... Well, who says that Christine was the good one? What if she was a little darker than anyone ever realized? Perhaps that's what made the Phantom so drawn to her... She had a dark soul similar to his own... So, this will be a DARK fic, if you didn't get that already. No fluff. No giggly scenes.**

**Pure musical here. Think Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman. Eerie stage lights. Echoes.**

**This will be rated M for violence and sensuality. However, I am not explicit nor tasteless. I hope you will read and enjoy regardless. I will not change the rating until it has to be changed, so the more people can be exposed to it.**

**Please review for this. This story is my baby.**

**Kisses to all.**

**.**

Christine couldn't rip herself away from his grip. He wrestled her into the boat, his fingers twisting violently in her hair.

She didn't even try to reason with him. She knew it would be pointless.

"You were never very good at making your own decisions." he hissed. "So I shall make one for you!"

Christine braced her hands on the two wooden sides, refusing to be pushed in. But both of Erik's hands thrust her forward with surprising strength, and she crumpled in the front. Face-down, her curls deliberately covering her face, she lay still and didn't move.

She felt Erik step furiously into the boat and propel it forward. He was muttering very fast, so she had to lift her head up slightly to hear him at all.

"Very clever girl, aren't you? I underestimated you. I never thought little Christine would do such a thing to him—especially when she was so completely, _exquisitely _his—but you had a mind of your own after all, didn't you?"

She stayed on the floor of the boat for what seemed like mere seconds… and then his hand seized the back of her dress and pulled; she let out a little shriek and put her arms forward to catch her fall.

Erik left her on the ground for a moment, his feet walking out of her limited line of sight. She struggled to sit up, but he returned all too quickly, carrying the white wedding dress in his hands.

"Put it on," he ordered.

She stared at him in disbelief. Wear the wedding dress…? But why—he was really going to force her to do this? Was this some final act in his opera, her final role?

But most importantly, if she put the dress on… _what came after_?

He grew annoyed. "I said, put it on!"

He lifted her up on her feet, where she swayed dramatically. Folding both of her hands over the white material, he shoved her gently away.

"Please…" she whispered, her eyes glazed.

The brief pity that flickered in his eyes vanished when he turned his back to her and paced forward. "I will not look," he replied stately. "But I _want it on_."

How extraordinary like Erik, to push her and force her to the ground in his temper, and then turn respectfully like a gentlemen when it was a question of her modesty.

She couldn't fight it and she wouldn't cry. This was what he wanted? Very well. She hoped it would cause him pain.

She pulled off her lace dress, ripping off the bell sleeves, taking care not to rip the fragile, pink material. She stood in her bodice, holding out the dress and examining it with a critical eye. Erik would never turn, she knew, but she didn't want him to get impatient. She found the edge of the skirt and slipped it on, but the dress was heavy, much heavier than it looked, and she had to bend over to reach some of the bows and the lace. She stopped curiously at the golden clasp, noting that it was very old-fashioned. She struggled with it, wanting to ask Erik where he had gotten such an old dress in such a fine condition.

It suddenly hit her, while she was pulling on this ancient dress, that Erik honestly wanted to _marry_ her. He truly wanted her to be his wife. He must have been planning this… dreaming of this for months. She was only a small piece in his plot; this was going ahead with her consent, or without it.

Indignation swelled within her, mixed with the injustice of it all, and she said, "You don't even care about me, do you?"

He still did not turn, although he must have known she was decent. "I regret you have that opinion," he replied coolly. "That's the opposite of the point I've been trying to make."

"You never listen," she retorted, her whole mind suddenly flooded with her own white fury. "All you see is what _you_ want! A little bride all for you, is that all you see? Why? Because I could sing? But why me? Why couldn't you just drag anyone down here to play pretend?"

She touched a nerve. He spun around furiously, and even she could recognize that the anger was there to mask the pain.

He seemed to overcome for words, and for a brief moment, she was sorry. Erik was much more sensitive than she'd always pictured, and seeing him so vulnerable and exposed before her stirred something in her heart. At the same time, she was so used to him being confident and powerful, with that slightly arrogant air that controlled her and protected her every move.

But when she turned against him, _he_ became the weak one, and _she_ dominated over him. And it was because he loved her… he had gone foolishly weak with love.

And that, to Christine, seemed terribly unfair. For the both of them.

Attempting to regain his composure, his long fingers closed over both of her wrists and brought her close to his face, so that she could actually feel his breath on her cheek. It frightened her, that he was so close, and she turned her head.

She saw instantly that he credited this as a rejection of his face, and it did nothing to improve his temper.

She tried to scramble away, but he pushed her down and turned away, as if just looking at her was causing him violent, physical pain. Almost drowning in all the lace and cloth piling around her, she recognized her position as one of defeat.

"So, this is it, then?" she asked him. "I'm yours. You _are_ going to go through with this, no matter what I say."

He straightened up and looked at her on the ground. "What can I say, dear?" he said calmly. "I am quite delighted to have my little wife. As if I would ever want anyone else, Christine. I only want you. No one else…" His voice grew very quiet, and he licked his lips. "How can you not understand that? No one else has ever even _mattered _to Erik. They hated me! And I hated them… They hated me, because of my _face…_"

He turned and retrieved the lace veil and bouquet from the mirror, and came towards her, almost hypnotically. "If I were handsome, Christine, you would love me! You would, I know you would! We would be perfect, you and I. You_ need_ me. And we would be together, and all we would need is our music forever, because that's how we belong. But… my face…"

His face… It always came back to his face. He saw it as his _only_ flaw…

Christine put one hand over her forehead, taking deep, steadying breaths. For the second time that night, Erik took both her arms and pulled her standing. He put the veil over her head, almost frantically, smoothing back her curls with trembling fingers.

"If you were handsome, I still wouldn't want to do this."

He stopped. "But I would be handsome, and we would be perfect."

She hesitated. "Erik," she said slowly, tasting his name on her tongue; she had never called him by his name before, though he had told her when she first came here. "You don't see how this is wrong?"

He laughed and pushed the bouquet in her hands. "The way the world has treated me, the mess God calls my face, your young fiancée, who found you _after_ I had already claimed you… all of that. Isn't that _wrong_ in your eyes?" He laughed, but it was a terrifyingly angry sound. "All the wrongs have been done against me! So I think I am able to slip by on a few things, eh?"

Both of them glared at each other, the asperity in the air swirling and uniting them. It was oddly alluring. It was safe in the cocoon of their tempers.

She looked down at the floor, but he slipped his hand under her chin and forced her to look into his own eyes.

"Look at me, my darling wife!" he whispered, his voice desperate and pleading. "You've always belonged to me, and you know it. Now we will just make it official, hmmm? No one has ever loved Erik before, he so wants to be loved… only be you, Christine, all he ever dreamed of asking for was _your_ love… and he doesn't want it forced…And you say I do not listen. I listen to _everything_ you say. I was there for you, when no one else cared… Can't you do the same thing for me?"

And then he was half-crying, and Christine took a bewildered step back.

His tears seemed to be making him angry. He grabbed her left hand where the little ring was still wrapped around her fourth finger. "Mine, " he said through gritted teeth. "You _must_ belong to me!"

"Don't be so angry," Christine begged, not brave enough to back away again. "Please don't be so angry…"

She could forgive him if only he wasn't so angry. If only he would admit to himself what he was, and simply revealed his feelings, she could relate to him. And she could help him.

But not like this.

He released her instantly, wringing his hands, repentant.

Christine was overwhelmed with emotion. He was asking too much of her, giving her too much to handle. She almost felt that both of their lives depended on her answer: If she said no, would he kill her in his wild anger? Or would he simply die from his own pain?

She reached her arms out to him, to console him, but he hunched away, brining his hand up to his face again.

She felt a stab of annoyance.

"There is no right," Erik growled, and it took Christine a moment to remember what he was talking about. "There is no wrong! Not down here."

His garbled and horrific view of the world and its people brought her to agony. She put one hand over her mouth as if to stifle her cries, and reached her other hand towards him, once again.

He darted back. "Don't _touch_ me!" he warned, his hand now pressed violently against his skin. "I don't want your pity! I am not a pitied creature!" His hand dropped, and a touch of his personality shone through as he stood to full height and told her, "I am a _monster!_ I want to be a monster!"

"No," she said at once. "No, you don't…"

He looked bleakly in the opposite direction. "No pity," he murmured distractedly. "You've shed far too many tears over me, Christine. And I know you. I know it takes much to make you cry. Am I worth that much?"

"I do care for you.," she responded anxiously, dropping the bouquet and veil by her feet and going to stand next to him. "I do."

"I don't need your love," he finally muttered, taking his hand and pressing it into his side, as if he were having difficulty breathing. "Why don't you just… just go, and leave me alone…You're right, I shouldn't be doing this, and I can't force you to do anything… Listen to how my mind changes every minute, Christine! But if you go now, I promise I won't come after you, but if you stay, remember that I'll always be here, and nothing will change." He took a deep breath. "If you go now… you may go. But if you stay… you are mine forever."

Christine's heart broke, right down the middle. She pressed both of her hands to her chest in a symbol of prayer.

_Dear God…_

She laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. He didn't even seem to notice.

_If you love _everyone, _God, who did you send to love him?_

She put one hand against his jaw and turned him with more force than she'd meant to.

…_Me?_

She could feel his face on her fingertips, and the trace of his heartbeat under his shoulder; she saw the surprise and hurt in his mismatched grey eyes for the shortest second; and then she brought his face down, and kissed him.

_Give me courage…_

She felt his shock more than she saw it. She tried to ignore it—she tried to put as much passion… as much _love_ as she possibly could into her embrace. It came easier than she expected… She didn't feel disgusted or burdened. She felt loved, and absorbed… She felt as though she could quite possibly stay here forever, with him not angry or jealous or confused… just loved and complete in his arms.

His lips were still, his hands tight at his sides, and he seemed to be—pulling away? Blankly, she stepped back, taking both of his trembling hands. Unfortunately, he took this moment to wrench himself out of her reach; but when she hesitated, and threw her arms back around him, he gave a little moan of surrender into her mouth and seemed to want nothing more than to meet her lips again.

A man's touch was suprisingly difficult to pull away from. She inhaled him, breathed within him, felt herself safe in the grip of his arms.

The tips of his fingers touched hesitatingly to her waist, and he kissed her back.

Christine felt something open inside of her, a piece of her heart. It hurt, and it felt wrong, like it shouldn't be there. Something remembered Raoul… Poor Raoul. All she wanted was to be with both of them. Because she loved both of them, in their own ways.

But for now, she couldn't bear to be parted from this... this desire.

When she finally released him, she stayed close, her head resting on his shoulder, her hands gripping his collar. His hands were still holding her, very tightly now, as if he, too, couldn't bear to let her go.

She felt his breath against the top of her curls, and she leaned into him and he caught her naturally. They were a perfect fit. Once more, she lightly touched her lips to his, and he closed his eyes and shuddered. His grip grew almost too tight. Posessive.

They both drew back at the same time, their eyes meeting, reflections of shock and awe. Erik reached a trembling hand towards her face, his lips parting in disbelief.

And then a voice broke the silence.

"Christine? Are you alright? Where are you? _Christine_!"


	2. Act II

**A/N: Quick update to get you started. Remember, this is still the slow part and not really the story yet... Just the continuation.**

**No reason not to review, however. :-)**

**--**

Erik drew back slowly, their eyes locked on each other. Christine' hands remained outstretched, her fingers crumpled around empty air.

The voice rang out again.

"Christine!"

She turned automatically, and Raoul stood right behind the portcullis, looking harassed and fruitlessly searching, his eyes darting in every direction.

Erik instantly brought his hand up to cover his face, turning away from both of them. "I knew he would come." he said very softly.

Raoul allowed one expression of joy to break out over his countenance as he saw Christine, but it quickly turned to anger as he focused on the black shape next to her. "You!" he cried out bravely. "Release her!"

"Raoul," Christine murmured in fear, and reaching out to him, before remembering that it was precisely the same movement she had made towards Erik, and her arms fell limply at her sides.

"She will be released when I say she will be released," Erik whispered, his voice so soft that the menace in his voice was almost unreadable. Christine stood in terror, but he only smiled at her. "You may go."

_Go? Go where?_

"Christine, come here." Raoul said hoarsely, desperately trying to fit his arms through the bars to take her hands. She hesitated, and then went over to him and took them. His hands were freezing.

Erik glanced over at them both, and made an odd movement, as if he were shaking something unpleasant off of his shoulders. He made another motion—as if pressing and twisting something into thin air—and the portcullis rose several inches off the floor so that Raoul stepped forward and crouched down.

She hesitated.

"Christine… are you well?"

She licked her lips, which felt frozen. They were cold… like everything else. "Raoul, I don't think I can…"

He mistook her words, and tried to physically help her over, but she was moving backwards at the same time he grasped her forwards, and the result was that she clung to the gate as her knees toppled and pulled down. There was a ripping noise, and she looked down to see that the lower part of the dress had caught on the sharp edges and been pulled off the silk, so that a long piece of lace and fabric hung down on the ground.

For some reason, Christine had never seen anything more horrifying then that broken, tattered dress, and it was most definitely the last thing she could handle; she burst into completely irrational tears. It only proved how serious the situation was, because Christine _never _cried. She hadn't cried at her father's funeral, she hadn't cried when she broke her arm, she hadn't cried when she had fallen into the lake, and yet the torn lace was the most beautiful and most terrible thing she had ever seen in her life.

She wanted Erik to make everything alright, like he used to when he was just a secret messenger to her, giving her music. But she thought Erik was crying, too, refusing to look at either of them, his hand still over his face.

There was a growing panic in the air. Raoul leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Everyone is coming. You can't imagine what it's like upstairs. They're coming for _him_, not us… We must get going!"

It didn't make sense… Who was coming? "Why?" she asked quietly.

"He's killed again," Raoul murmured. "He must pay for his crimes."

Things fell into place. Ubaldo had not been performing with her because Erik had killed him. Just like Buquet.

Horrified and dazed, she looked towards Erik. He met her eyes bravely, almost defiantly, but she saw hesitation under his calm façade.

_They're going to kill you,_ her eyes told him. He only stared at her, as if he were already resigned to the inevitable. She knew she should leave with Raoul, but how could she leave Erik? What sort of cruel monster would she be?

She crawled up and went to him, grabbing his arm. He reached out and held her tightly, and she appreciated the sensation of his arm… It proved to her that he _was_ a man, no ghost or angel.

"Don't you dare give up," she hissed as he gave her one last look and released her. "You always told me never to give up… How could you do this to me?" A sudden idea flashed in her mind. "Come with us."

"What?" Raoul asked in shock, rolling under the portcullis, with the sounds of many people wafting over the lair, echoing against the heavy walls. "Christine?"

"No; you must leave," Erik murmured coaxingly, his lips touching her ear. The both of them remained quite oblivious to Raoul's presence. "They mustn't find you here."

"I don't want them to find _you_!" she said passionately, but he quickly pushed her towards Raoul as the yelling filled the cave. They were very, very close now, the pandemonium growing nearer.

His eyes flashed with familiar anger. "I said, _leave_."

"I said, _no_."

Panic overtook her as he seemed to lunge upon her, but he was only dragging her up into his arms. "Close your eyes, cover your ears," he murmured almost imperceptibly, and she obeyed at once, her hands pressed almost painfully against her ears, her eyes squeezed shut.

She could hear Raoul's voice, but she forced herself not to make out the words… Erik was walking…. Faster… There were still noises… But she would not open her eyes until he had given her permission.

The feeling of the air changed. The dulled silence became more pronounced.

"Come, look at me."

When she opened, it was quiet and still. She felt a little cool, but warm air felt as if it were coming from somewhere. .. and Erik's masked face was staring down at her.

She was very careful not to let her shock show on her face, lest he interpret it the wrong way. Instead, she looked worriedly at the cellar around her.

"He's not here." Erik said quietly.

She loved his voice so much. She wanted him to say something else. "Who?"

He took a deep breath, a little unsteady. "Your Raoul. He isn't here."

The cavern reflected his words in the silence. They were not in the lair anymore, and she wondered where they were. "Oh. Then where is he?"

Erik looked away from her and put his head down. She watched his shadow on the wall, noting how she could see the rim of the mask even in the dark light. He didn't offer to help her up as she struggled to sit, but finally turned to her with an expression of awe.

"I _love_ you," he said.

She stared back at him, a little bit of color in her cheeks. Of course, she had known that for a while. She had often tried to tell her that she was only an obsession in a mad man's world, but she couldn't fool herself for long. The Voice had loved her; Erik was the Voice.

"Raoul," she reminded him gently. "Where is he? And the rest of the people?"

"He left, with them," Erik explained fervently, his eyes glowing in a slightly maniacal way. "He tried to take you—I wanted him to take you—but you were too heavy. He would have stayed right here, by you, but—" A grin appeared beneath the mask. "—I scared him off. He ran. He's coming back. To get you."

She stared into his eyes as they cooled and then resumed to staring moodily at the floor. "Where are we, then?"

"I love you," he mumbled again, looking confused. "Why?"

She had never remembered feeling this awkward around him. Uncomfortable, angry, and hurt, but never this twisting feeling. She wished he would move a little away from her.

She was still in the wedding dress, which contrasted heavily against Erik's black jacket. The dress was now stained _and_ ripped, thanks to her. It had been such a beautiful dress; she would have enjoyed wearing it any other time. "Erik, where did you get this dress?" she asked, voicing the question that she'd had for a while. She couldn't picture him making—or even buying—something this frilly.

He looked back up at her. "It was my mother's."

Christine looked surprisingly at the dress, tracing the soft curves of the material in wonderment. So this had been worn by his mother? She could picture a faceless, young woman, as beautiful as she was cold, her poor little son lingering behind her, all but invisible without the glow from his mask.

She tried another question. "Where are we?"

He sighed darkly. "Outside of my house."

Her forehead crinkled. His music room? With the gate and the organ and the lake? She didn't think so. "What house—"

"_My house_, yes," he snapped, rising to his feet. "So my little lair is not unusual for you, but my _house_, which any _normal_ man would have, shocks you?"

"I didn't mean—I just thought we were still under the Opera—"

"Get up," he demanded flatly, and he began to walk to his left, his head down. She stood up unsteadily and followed him over to a protruding stone in the wall, and watched in disbelief as he opened up what appeared to be a door fitting perfectly in the rock.

She let him disappear for a moment, and then she went to the doorway and stared.

It was a house… _A real house._

The 'door' opened up to a very simply furnished living room designed with dark reds and gold; three other doorways were up against the back wall, closed and two with heavy locks; a simple desk sat against one wall, and paintings covered the one adjacent to it; the whole room had a very inviting feel to it.

"How on earth…?" she whispered, completely at a loss of what to say.

But she didn't have time to even come up with anything, before Erik was blocking her view and forcing her to step out of the doorway.

"I didn't invite you in." he snapped, and she retreated back several steps from his frightening figure.

"What did you—"

"You're safe from the vengeful fools who came to find me," he bristled, looking slightly maniacal again. "I even saved Raoul de Chagny—_for you—_and then you continue to cling to me like I have done great damage?"

"You want me to leave?" she asked, and she couldn't stop the crestfallen expression that showed in her eyes, nor the desperation in her voice.

"Yes, I want you to leave!" he said impatiently. "Of course I do not want you to leave! I want you to stay! I do not want Raoul back down here, or anybody. They annoy me. If you do not go back up to him, he will eventually come back for you." A wry smile stretched across his features. "He is very brave, you know… He loves you, too."

Christine was trying to think about too many different things at once, but she kept coming back to the same thing, and she was surprised to find that it didn't bother her at all.

"I don't want to go back upstairs," she answered clearly. She tried to put a lot of other things into her simple sentence, but she wasn't sure she succeeded very well. He still looked angry.

"I can't keep you safe anymore." he said bitterly. "There's no reason why we must remain in contact."

In her mind, Erik had always been associated with safety. He had been her security through fear and faithlessness; even after she'd learned what he truly was, his presence still provided a protection that she knew would be impossible to erase.

"If I stay with you, you would keep me safe." she pointed out.

"From the world, perhaps," he answered, and his voice was hard. "But not from me. Until you are far away… until you are far away, you will not be safe from me."

"What danger are you to me?" she murmured, and her hand rose to stroke invisible air. His eyes latched upon her arm, and did not look up. She strode off several feet behind her, wanting to hear him beg for her to stay—was that not what he had been doing earlier? And yet her kiss seemed to have brought about the opposite affect than what she wanted. Rather than opening his eyes, he seemed to be closing them and looking away. When cool hands seized her shoulder, she almost laughed from relief, but he only shoved her in another direction.

"That way is the exit." he said coolly.

She could only stare at him.

The first feelings of hurt crept up in her. The man she always thought would love her no matter what was full-out rejecting her. She had played with him for so many months, darting around the objective, always making him fall short of his goal, that now it seemed he was unable to actually accept it.

She felt her face grow flushed and her body felt warm and uncomfortable as she put her head down and worked on everything in her power to not let tears fall.

Erik was the one who had made her strong, and she ought to show him the finished result.

Too bad she couldn't work up any of the courage again.

"I'm staying with you."

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, as if asking for patience, and then turned back to her. They stood like that for a long time.

"Really?" he asked.

Somewhere far away, was a loud crash. In the half darkness and strange light, Christine could almost pretend that it sounded like music down there. Because everything was Erik's music now, and no one could take that away from her.

--


	3. Act III

**A/N: The last boring 'continuation' chapter. Then things move more easily.**

**--**

His expression turned to one of amusement, and he said nothing.

Her confidence faltered; her head dropped back down.

"Please don't send me away…"

He sighed again, and it was full of the high emotions of a long evening. "What do you want of me?" he demanded tiredly. "Raoul is gone. I sent him away with the rest of them, but how long until he comes back to retrieve you again? Go back to him; I do not want him down here again."

"You think Raoul will return?" she asked curiously.

Erik laughed. "Silly. Of course he will. He loves you." And he sighed yet again.

"If Raoul doesn't come back…" she started. "If Raoul doesn't come back, and I could promise no complications… Would you still…? Would you still want me with you? Like the way it used to be?"

She watched him try to process that. "When I sang to you—when I had to live in denial and loneliness and vindication—when I lied to you and hurt you and Raoul hadn't come back?" She nodded, and his eyes flashed. She should have stopped there, as soon as she saw that understanding in his eyes, but she made no move to take back her words. "You enjoyed that way of living?"

Christine thought very hard, and tried to remember how happy she had been when he had sung to her. "Yes."

He took her shoulders suddenly and roughly shook her. "Well, I did not, you understand?"

"Stop it," she told him, as he shook her a little.

"What is that on your hand?" he demanded, shaking her again. "What is on your hand?"

Christine looked down, surprised to find smeared blood dried between her fingers. She frowned, trying to remember when she might have done it… she thought of the sharp edges of the portcullis, and how she had reached her arms under it.

He traced the dried bloodstains lovingly. Then he released her arms and instead took her hands. "I hurt you?"

She blinked, confused. "No, Erik, it wasn't you…"

He let out a trembling sigh, rubbing circles in her palms. Mesmerized, she watched the movements his hands made against her own, and said one last time, "Please don't make me leave…"

He clutched at her." You won't leave me, you'll stay with me," he said mournfully. She allowed him to pull her and gather her in his arms for and odd, fleeting hug, and she was overcome with a desire to laugh, but settled on smiling and blinking. Her fingers hurt quite a lot.

It struck her that she had never really spoken to him as _Erik_ before. He had been an angel to her, a celestial figment of her imagination until he had brought her here. Her fight had been feeble, but upon hearing his voice, she had broken down into hysterical tears while he sang her to sleep.

The next morning, everything was foggy and unreal, and she watched him as he composed… He had looked so beautiful to her, until all she wanted to do was see what his face looked like.

Never had she seen anyone move as fast as he did, literally attacking her in a wild frenzy, yet still unable to prevent that age-long glimpse she stole of his hidden shame… How long did he scream at her? Every curse and foul word Christine had heard of flew from his lips, for almost an hour. She had curled into a ball and cried, and when he had yelled himself hoarse, he cried too. He collapsed like a fallen soldier, and sobbed into her lap for what seemed like another hour. By then, she was completely convinced that she had been enticed into this trap and any blame lay with this mad man alone, although her new resolve faltered when saw his eyes; snapped and beaten after crying for so long.

She had imagined he would eventually calm and tell her who he was and why he had done everything, but he had simply risen and left for several minutes, and then returned and politely asked if he could have his mask back.

That was last time she had seen him lose control, until tonight. The explanation she had been hoping for never came.

"Christine?"

He released her, stepping back as if he had overstepped his boundaries.

"How long have you been here at the Opera?" Christine asked.

"Too long," he answered sadly. When the silence stretched on again, both of them standing a foot apart, he reached up and warily stroked one of her curls from the side of her forehead to behind her ear. She could see his hesitancy and wondered how he could seem so normal and human one moment, and then… almost paranormal the next.

She tried again. "Do you have any family, or anyone who—"

"I have no one," he interrupted, looking suddenly cross. "My parents were dead long ago. I never had a home until I came here, barely a year after the Opera was built. I found much of the structure to be unsatisfactory, so I decided to redesign the lower levels and…" He pointed languidly towards where they must have just left, and then behind him at his odd, little home.

"You _built_ this?" she asked, astounded.

He nodded solemnly, but seemed faintly pleased at her reaction. "Everything with my own hands."

She grasped for words. "But that must have taken _years_!"

His tone seemed utterly careless. "What else had I to do?"

He reached out and took her hands again, holding them as if weighing them.

Her curiosity about his life couldn't be suppressed, even by his touch. "How old are you?"

The left side of his lips turned up into a small smile. "Old enough to know better. There were no birthdays at my house. I had run off before I even knew what a birthday was! Sometimes, days seemed infinitely long to me, and other times I felt as though the seasons were changing faster than the months. By the time I was wise enough to start counting years, I was far from being a child."

She felt a terrible sadness for such a trivial thing. "I'm so sorry, Erik."

He started to laugh. "Out of all the things you choose to pity me for, it's for not knowing the day of my birth!" He laughed and laughed, and Christine decided she wanted to feel his laughter, to know it was real, so she reached out and laid her hand against his mask—flesh to plaster.

His laughing ceased instantly. "What are you doing?" he asked warningly, and as her fingers curled, he said, "If I asked you not to take it off, would you listen to me?"

She stared at him, trying to see deeper than his eyes. The most powerful creature she would ever know was in _her_ power; this mastermind, this musician, magician, and now it seemed, architect, was even more extraordinary that she had originally thought. Could she bring all of that crashing around their ears if she broke that one fault line in his image?

Christine decided she would never allow herself to be surprised again. There was nothing now that could shock her. Everything about Erik was completely plausible. If he told her he could fly, she wouldn't doubt him.

She didn't remove the mask, but she knew where all of his imperfections were anyway, and they burned in her memory.

If she could kiss him again, the moment would have been darkly perfect, but they both stared at each other so resolutely that it couldn't happen.

"May I go inside now?" Christine asked beseechingly, and he looked up towards the cavern ceiling as if praying for some sort of strength, and then went back and opened the near invisible door. He pointed one chilling finger into the depths and she wondered exactly what would come about inside its heavy and unvisited walls.

She was so exhausted from the long night, that it would have been almost too easy to curl up anywhere in the golden room and fall asleep. Erik pushed her inside without actually touching her, and she turned to him.

"Are there rooms?" she asked.

"Dozens and dozens," he replied evenly. "It's a house fit for a king."

That was certainly fitting, she thought, and she peered around, looking at the few doors. "This one leads…?" she asked again, pushing onto it. To her amazement, it was a great cavern-like room, with the dark ceilings a good twenty feet up. It was rather like stepping into a deserted chapel, with its vaults of rock and plaster. It shined with an odd green light that she couldn't place; a dark and secret room that hid behind the class of the golden room.

"An upstairs." he replied grimly as she gestured at farthest door in the room, a thick, wooden one that seemed out of place.

"Upstairs?" she repeated faintly. "You built an upstairs in the rock?"

"I didn't say it wasn't difficult," he snapped, but he pushed open the door and she ascended with a feeling that she had fallen into Wonderland like Alice, one of the stories her father had told her long ago.

Hallways and hallways filled with dark doors. How many were there? Dozens and dozens, he had said… dozens and dozens of room. She took a deep breath, surprisingly calm for all that she was experiencing, and said, "Which one is mine?"

There was an odd sort of silence, and she could see one of his eyebrows raise in confusion. "Pardon?" he asked politely.

"Which one is mine?" she repeated, gesturing to the many rooms.

He seemed quietly stunned for a moment, but recovered quickly and said, "Whichever one you choose, my dear."

For a few minutes, it was fun strolling around and looking into all the rooms. Most of them were bedrooms in different colors: one with the same tones as the golden room downstairs, one with royal blues and purple that reminded her of a castle, another with the sea greens of an ocean. There was one that reminded her of the dark Oriental, and another that reminded her of mossy rainforests.

She chose the simplest one that she had come across. It was small but fresh feeling, with only a bed and a chest of drawers. Everything was white, meaning the walls, the carpet, the bed, the wood, and even the door. It was tremendously modern compared to the other ones she had seen, and it grounded her.

He made no comment on her choice. "You should sleep now…" he said uncertainly, and backed towards the door.

"Are you going to leave me?" she asked. Alone and unprotected in this foreign home, she would never sleep!

"I would never remain in your room while you slept," he said quietly, looking at the pale carpet. His voice was almost melancholy.

"Then I shall sleep downstairs tonight, in the golden room." she announced, and marched past him down the hallways and to the steps. Erik followed with a heavier air.

"You shouldn't have to sleep on a couch," he protested, but she ignored him and, once in the gold room, went to the couch with good grace. He grabbed a red quilt from the chair and draped it around her anxiously. "Christine…"

She knew there was no way she could willingly fall asleep on a night like this. "Do you have anything to help me sleep?"

He opened his mouth as if to answer, and then abruptly his entire demeanor changed. "Absolutely not," he exhaled, and turned away as if steeling himself.

"Why not?"

"Because…" he said, and his voice was firm, very strict. "Because I said so."

It was almost like a warning of danger.

But suddenly, to Christine it was a challenge and a risk. And she wanted both of them. Her mouth turned hopefully and her eyes sparkled. "Please? I'm so tired."

He gave her a very dark glare. "Wait here," he muttered, and disappeared into one of the many doors in the room. She waited on the couch like he told her, and still hadn't moved when he came back with a glass of water.

"It's in the water," he said brusquely. Wiping her hands against the fabric on the couch, she took it carefully, peering in it a little hesitatingly. "Oh no, you begged for it," he added, catching the sight on her face. "And you will drink it now."

She did quickly, feeling very silly with him watching her so intently. He took the glass, and she stared up at him in worry.

"It's not very strong," he told her quietly. "Are you afraid I'm going to hurt you while you're sleeping?" He put his fingers against the lace at her wrist, and then traveled up to her shoulders. "Never, Christine…"

"No, of course I don't think that…"

His hands stopped below her neck, but he seemed perfectly in control of himself. When she met his eyes, he only pierced her with his odd, triumphant gaze. "This will not happen again," he said languidly. Her heart stuttered.

He smiled at her, moving closer, and she turned into the cushions to close her eyes.

--


	4. Act IV

--

Christine awoke to the sound of distant voices yelling in echoes. She realized where she was and grew very still.

Erik was sitting in a plain wooden chair that didn't match the rest of the furniture. Tilted toward the doorway, only the mask was exposed to her, but she sensed the blank stare behind it. He must have changed his shirt; he wore no jacket and the white shirt had been exchanged for a dark grey.

Moving as little as possible, she examined how her sleeves had been pushed to above her elbows and her arms and hands had been bandaged with thick gauze. She thought that was a little excessive… the scrapes hadn't even covered her whole fingers… but the thick material made her hands feel numb and healed. Her shoes had been removed and her hair had been taken completely down.

The brief panic that had consumed her for those few seconds before she closed her eyes overtook her again, and she grasped for the corner of her dress with unfamiliar adrenaline coursing through her. Her petticoats were still tied the way she had tied them, and her stocking were still laced with the same unsteady bow she had tied herself.

Looking up, Erik was watching her with an empty expression.

"I didn't touch you," he said blankly.

"Ah," Christine said, her face growing warm. "Of course not."

He kept his fixated expression on her for only a moment, and then looked towards the door again, where voices still clambered.

It was most definitely yelling, but it sounded far away… It was almost cheering, but in a sick, twisted way. Erik turned towards her again and gave her a waxen smile. Another yell sounded closer.

Frightened, she flurried over to him and gently pulled on his arm. "Can they reach us here?" she asked.

He looked at her with a pained expression. "No, I shouldn't think so. We are incased in solid rock, you know." He barely seemed to notice her, and she couldn't tell if he was mocking her or not.

"Really?" she asked, but he didn't answer.

For how long they both sat there, listening to the noises that were surely only a few yards away, Christine didn't know. Afraid to move, even after all seemed quiet, she became uncomfortable and bored, waiting for Erik to speak. But he didn't. He only sat there, staring at the door with a glazed expression that she didn't want to interrupt.

When it was too much and felt as thought it had been hours, she said, "Erik, please… tell me what's going on."

He sighed, as if she had asked him to move mountains, and rose languidly to the door. "I suppose you'll want to see."

Not sure if she really wanted to, she followed him hesitatingly out the strange door, still shocked by the unreality of it all as they emerged into the dark cellars. On instinct, she grabbed his hand; it fit snugly, like it belonged there, and his own fingers interlaced with hers naturally as they wove through dark tunnels.

"Where are we going?" she asked softly.

Erik kept his face forward, his steps steady, but there was something off with his voice. "The music study. Where I… brought you."

There were no more voices around them, but some unidentified sounds still rang in the distance. The more uncomfortable she became, the tighter she gripped his hand; the more uncomfortable she became, the calmer he seemed to grow.

"That's where they were looking for you… for us."

He nodded. "The only secret your Raoul can betray… and even that is not correct…"he said satirically, and she looked to see that he was smiling.

The noises quieted.

"I love you, Christine," he said, and his voice was more of its normal tone, the mixture of honeyed-timbre and low silk. "I love you more than anything else. Nothing else even comes close."

Her mouth was dry. "I believe you."

"Do you?" he whispered. His voice changed again, to the hard cynical edge. "You would have to convince me of that."

"Fine," she said stoutly. "I will."

His sigh was heavy to her ears, but when he spoke it was of forced lightness and hope. "Not to worry, my love, not to worry… I need very little to get by in life. It's an unfortunate thing to get used to, I suppose, but one will make do. Only to make do, that's all one can ask for… Look up, dear, look where we are…"

As he said, they were at what he called 'the music study'; only it didn't look much like the music study she had been at only hours ago. Everything was drenched, and while it appeared to be untouched, everything was indisputably ruined.

"Come help me save a few things," Erik said, no change in his silk voice. "And then we'll decide what to do."

He hummed as he went around, as if he had no care in the world other than to pick up the scraps of music with an almost patronizing rhythm. To Christine, it was close to torture, as every beat of her steps seemed to pound with _guilt guilt guilt._

All of his music was ruined, because he wasn't there to save it. How important had all of this been to him; how important had she been to him? Was it worth it, to lose years of work to a young woman who may or may not return his favors?

Was it her turn to choose what _he_ was worth?

_Guilt guilt guilt._

When she couldn't take it anymore, she went to the side and stood there, watching the ripples on the water through the gate. Erik was there almost immediately, staring in the same direction, and then gazing steadily at her. It was flattering, it was starting to feel normal. Like it would be something to worry about if he _wasn't_ obsessed with her.

She was counting on that obsession now… Depending on it to keep her alive.

"We really ought to find you a new dress," he mused thoughtfully.

Another thing she had destroyed… The edges were frayed and there was a rip in the bottom skirt from the sharp edges of the gate. It was damp and wrinkled looking.

"I ruined it," she said dully, touching her own sleeve with a mournful fascination.

"Silly," he said quietly. "You did no such thing. Come with me."

Once again, she followed him without question, her mind wandering faster than her feet. She should have been paying attention to where she was, to be more aware of her surroundings, but it was all she could do to drag one foot after another up the incline.

"Where are we going?" she asked at one point, but he made no answer.

Where they were going appeared to be nowhere, but then Erik tugged at a large piece of plaster tucked into a thick wall, and it swiveled, leading out to none other than the entrance hall.

He smiled grimly at her expression. "Easily impressed?"

Light shone through the high windows, revealing for the first time that it was morning, a fact that utterly unhinged her—it had seemed like the dead of night only minutes ago.

She turned to him to ask what they were doing, but before she could even open her mouth, Erik had given her a heavy shove into the foyer.

He watched her with exhilaration as she glanced around the empty room and then back at him. "What's happening, Erik? What am I doing?"

He shrugged. "What do you want to do?"

A door shut somewhere, and she looked around wildly before meeting his eyes again. "I… want to stay with you…?"

"You don't sound very sure of that."

"I want to stay with you."

"Good girl. Then why don't you go upstairs and get your things?"

Her mind felt as though it were moving through syrup. "And… come back down here? With you?"

"You're coming back to me," he said slowly, as if explaining to a very dull child. "You will bring down things you will need, and then we will return home."

"Home," she echoed.

"Go off, now."

She tottered across the hall, her heart pounding with the idea that any moment, someone could appear and see her. But like a ghost, she whispered across the hallways, silently moving into the stairwell. Luckily, she was already up the stairs and away from Erik's vision before she started to hyperventilate.

--

Adrenaline coursed through her, yet she worked with a mechanical ease, pulling down gowns and shifts and piling them into her carpet bag. Her eyes glanced around automatically, and she wondered if Erik had followed her up and was now watching her from behind her walls. The wedding dress was stripped off and she put on a simple cream gown that felt like heaven after the weight of the previous garment. Once safely covered, she looked towards the walls again, wondering if he had watched her undress. Then she wondered if she would mind either way.

She seriously doubted it, so she sat down on the edge of her bed to postpone the inevitable.

But the silence swirled around her, and it seemed to be scolding her—scolding her for keeping Erik waiting—so she rose and left the room, leaving the door wide open.

She passed her dressing room, but didn't go in it. It felt strange to be so close to it, and yet feeling like she hadn't seen it in ages. Her whole concept of time seemed tampered with, as if it had been speeding by for days and days, and when she was finally used to the pace, slowed right back down. Had it really been last night when her entire life had changed direction?

She tripped going down the steps and again in the hallway, so she was walking very slowly by the time she got to the foyer, which she used to glance around where Erik might be.

There was no other movement at first, but then he stepped out from the seating area entrance and she breathed a sigh of relief. What had been a comforting sound—the sound of his voice—had turned into a comforting vision.

"You've been a very long time," he said tonelessly. His eyes glanced up and down. "You changed."

"I brought the dress with me," she replied, and was surprised to find her own voice was just as emotionless as his.

There was a suppressed impatience in his face—he did not want to hear about the dress. "Raoul passed."'

She kept her voice quiet, as if he were still around. "Here?"

He nodded. "He was deep in conversation. It was not about you."

"I'm glad to see he is not still around the music study," she said reasonably, while Erik looked at her with a scrutinizing expression.

"You don't love him anymore." he declared eventually.

How could she love anyone else when Erik was within a ten mile radius? He was like a poison. He drowned out anyone else in the vicinity. "No," she agreed, a little half-heartedly. Poor Raoul… He had been everything she wanted…

"Since when?" Erik demanded.

The hall was deserted, so she answered carefully. "Since the graveyard."

He was surprised, that much she could tell. "How intriguing!" he said brazenly, reaching out for her and wrapping his hand around her wrist. She automatically drew towards him, like a moth to light.

"Would you carry this for me?" she asked, extending her bag, but he had already taken it before she had finished her request. His eyes viewed her with interest, and then he turned after a beckoned finger. "Are we going back… home?"

"Home," she could hear him say as he started to walk back into the darkness. "Is a dangerous and wonderful place." For a moment, he smiled insanely in the half-light, looking frightening in every aspect. " I think you will like it."

--


	5. Act V

--

He had once said she was like his muse. He had been wrong. She wasn't his muse, she was his whole inspiration.

"That's what a muse is," Erik told her when she shared her spoiled thoughts. "You inspire me."

But he was still wrong. She couldn't explain it, but she was more than an inspiration. To him, she was like a way of life. What had he done before her.

"Nothing," he had said.

Had she thought that they were to spend countless hours in awkward silence and uncomfortable intimacy? Or that she would be locked away in one of the small rooms that surely lay hidden in his fortress? Well, that was completely far off, considering there weren't a few, small rooms—there were _hundreds_.

It was more than a maze, it was a journey. There were libraries full of books in strange languages. There were rooms with drawings and paintings scattered about like a studio. There were locked doors and empty rooms, some at the ends of long hallways to nowhere.

It was mysterious, but to Christine, it was beautiful.

Just like its designer, it was hidden illusions. It remained a solitary home, just like one above ground, even though its décor gave way to a castle.

Through the cavern room, was the staircase to another world. That's where the real mysteries were, filled with the locked doors and unused bedrooms. It was as if he'd planned on having dozens of unique guests and filled the place with things to amuse them.

"Why?" she kept asking. "Why did you do all this?"

His answer remained the same each time. "Christine, what else had I to do?"

He was relatively quiet in conversations other than that, but would speak to her about trivial things during mealtimes and before she retired. That was when she fully appreciated the fact that Erik really was very lonely. He had acted out of loneliness, all locked up in his fantasy world. It was so potent to her, even after she had barely been there a week; how much had it affected him, living here for years?

But it was music that held them together. Music that started half an hour after she arose, music that continued until lunch, where she was allowed to relax and do what she wished for an hour afterwards. Then it was music all afternoon and into the evening, all the way to supper. After supper, it was more music until bedtime.

Music, music, music.

Every now and then when she had her moments alone, she reflected terrifyingly that perhaps Erik really didn't care about her at all. Perhaps he had only been so desperately lonely, looking for any companionship, and she had been the first to catch his attention only because she could sing the way he preferred?

It made her nervous how much this bothered her.

Was it wrong to want Erik to want her, when she couldn't return the favor? Maybe it was wrong to admit to herself, but she almost did want him… but then she would think of Raoul. It was difficult to miss Raoul down here. It was difficult to miss anything.

She w_anted_ to love Erik right now, but she was afraid to do it. So she kept it locked inside, her hidden fantasy. Perhaps one day, she would tell him. But for now, her love was her secret.

Erik, for all intensive purposes, did not change. Just like the Angel always out of sight, he was kind and comforting to her during lessons. He was strict, oh yes, that hadn't changed either… but he was gentle and willing to listen. She found when she had performed very well, he was in a better mood, more considerate, and when she had perhaps not done a very good job, his disappointment made him bitter and irritable.

It was a connection that undoubtedly existed, and yet puzzled her. Was she as necessary as she thought she was, or just another instrument in his symphony? A beloved instrument that had to be pruned and practiced…

Her fears made her courageous. When Erik handed her a sheet of absolutely ludicrous music, she said, "If I couldn't sing this, would you still love me?"

"What an odd question!" Erik said at once, his eyes surprisingly soft. "What do you think?"

She watched him carefully. "It bothers me that I don't know."

He stared at her in a rather luring way for a moment, before he blinked and looked down at the music. "Well, never lose your voice, Christine, and then it won't matter in the slightest."

It was a dismissal of the topic, and Christine was _not_ finished.

"So I was right?" she persisted. "If I couldn't sing, you would have no use for me!"

His lips parted, and his hands spread out in thin air. "I'm sure we could find _some_ use for you," he murmured rather innocently, and his hands dropped back down. "But for right now, why don't you just sing?"

He took her out later, something she hadn't wanted to do. She did not want to leave her safe haven where she had grown comfortable with Erik. It was not interesting to her to see other people, to be reminded that there was another world outside of the darkness. The darkness she had grasped and she knew it. She didn't know this old world; it was like looking through a gossamer veil into a childhood memory.

She did ask if she might visit her father's grave, to which he replied with a very serene, "No," Afraid to push him towards anger, she did not bring it up again, but began organizing an argument for the next time she asked.

He held her hand as they walked around the small path around the Opera. The streets of Paris were dirty and wet, deserted in the very late hours. How strange: she had thought it was morning time. It was dank and deserted, nothing like the grandeur of Erik's home, and when she finally begged to return, he did so at once.

It was not unpleasant at all, being with him, but sometimes it grew very quiet. She often sat on the black couch against the green wall, and sometimes he would sit by her and talk gently. His voice was mesmerizing in the open room. Once, he requested if he could touch her hair—Christine had been a little startled but unable to find any blatant reason as to why she shouldn't allow it—and he had taken his hand and twisted her hair between each finger, and then pressed them each to the good side of his face. When she looked at him unsteadily, he smiled at her—such a dazzling and unexpected smile that she automatically smiled back.

When they sang that night, he told her about the blunders he had seen performers make during their entrance or incorrect lyrics that instead translated to something humorous, and she found herself giggling and laughing and chatting amiably back to him, enthusiastically launching into a story of her own.

Later, she realized she had been flirting with him.

She was looking forward to everything in her new twisted life, yet it still surprised her when a few days later, Erik informed her that new rehearsals were starting and she was to begin attending them.

"Back to rehearsals?" she repeated uncertainly. "Why must I do that?"

He looked at her sternly. "Because you have a fine career that I built for you, and I will not have all my hard work thrown out!"

Christine thought of all the people she had hated up there, how she had so often wished they were dead. She had often wished that the overweight and lazy Joseph Buquet would fall from some of the scenery rafters… or that annoying Ubaldo would tear his vocal chords and never sing again…

She was afraid and ashamed to admit she had so desperately wished these things.

She felt as though she was a curse that was put upon them all, and she did not want to go back up there and face those consequences.

"Is that very wise, Erik?" she continued cautiously. "Surely they are searching for me? And you?"

"They will have no reason to search for you if they find you," he answered reasonably. His voice betrayed only a flicker of a raw temper, and she was afraid to break into his rage.

"How will I get back down here if they will be watching me?"

"I will show you how to travel unseen," he replied coolly, completely unperturbed.

It troubled her that he was not concerned, and she couldn't put her finger on what it was that troubled her in the first place.

"I suppose…" she admitted fretfully, but she pulled on the frill on her sleeves and tried to hide her downcast expression. Erik came over and paused in front of her before laying his hands carefully on her shoulders.

"Are you frightened?" he asked kindly.

The pressure his hands made was nice, comforting. It was odd to have him close to her again, when he always felt like some sort of romantic apparition—it was nice to know he was real and solid. It made her heart rise and bubble unexpectedly in her throat.

"No, of course not!" she said too quickly. Incorrectly. "Yes," she moaned, hanging her head. "About having to face other people again. Having to look at all the changes and the pain and all the things that have happened and know that it was my fault."

He touched the tip of her nose gently. "You are at fault for _nothing_."

His voice was so sincere, so utterly palpable in his confidence, that she almost believed him.

But when it came down to it, he would just be deceiving her again… because she knew that she was at fault for everything. No matter what was you looked at it, no matter who actually carried out the deeds, it all came back to her in a shining swoop of fate. She looked back up at him, perhaps to say he was wrong, but the words died uselessly in her lips. He looked like a god of the Underworld, standing there, framed by the darkness of the cavern room. His arms were out, still lightly on her shoulders, and she wanted to reach up and hold him there like that, forever. He looked easy to blame.

But nothing lasted forever, and now he was watching her, with a sort of patient intensity.

She said, "When do rehearsals begin?"

--

She thought it would be easy. She found she was wrong.

It showed her for the first time what a coward she really was, when she couldn't go.

"I can't, Erik, don't make me!" she said upon the parting in their own entrance hall. "Please don't make me! I don't want to do this, I don't want to go out!"

He snatched her against him, holding her arms down at her side and looking at her as if she were a toddler throwing a tantrum. "What has gotten into you?" He peered at her suspiciously.

Just the sight of a small group of people that she recognized walking around was near sending her into hysterics. How long had she been down in Erik's world...? Years, it seemed… She had purposely forgotten what it was like to be around people. And now she found she did not want to be reminded.

"I always hated all of them, and now you're going to force me to be with them again?" she said helplessly against his chest, which smelled like the interior of home. "You promised me you would take care of me, make everything better… this isn't what I wanted."

From his stance, she couldn't tell if he was angry or not. "I did promise that," he finally said resignedly. "But Christine, I _never_ intended you to want…_me._"

His words were like an alarm bell, and as his grip on her relaxed, her own grip tightened, wrapping around his neck and pressing her face into his mask. It was the closest she'd ever been to him ever, and the only thing that kept them from completely touching was the simple matter of their clothing.

Erik was uncharacteristically startled, and actually took a step backwards before he seemed to comprehend what was happening. His arms felt very carefully controlled as they briefly wrapped around her and kissed the top of her head with the most feather-light of kisses.

"I don't like them," she pouted, pressing her hands together against his chest. He was warm and surprisingly comfortable to lean against.

"_I_ like you," Erik whispered, and his voice was angry, defensive.

But then he shivered and suddenly held her at arm's length. "Don't you understand what you're choosing?" he asked, and his voice held the depths of anguish. Of regret. "I would give anything to belong in _your world_, and you would do anything to belong in _mine?_"

She listened carefully, but didn't say anything. "I'm not sure. I'm not sure about anything, except for that I won't go out there and sing for all those people who don't deserve it. I won't sing for anybody but you."

They had worked so hard together to perfect her voice for all of Paris to hear… Was he angry with her for her choice? But he shouldn't be… He would still be able to hear her. To him, her voice w_as_ perfection, but to others it was just another voice. Nothing extraordinary. Just someone to enjoy for a little, and then leave behind as they moved on with more trivial things. She wanted him to hear perfection. She could care less about anyone else.

She was having an epiphany of where she belonged—one place where she had _always_ felt welcome and safe. Even in the darkness.

"I didn't choose to live the way I do," he said bitterly, gazing down at her with a contrasting expression; it was as if he wanted to praise and scold her at the same time. "And yet, you would rather live away from the light? I don't mind the darkness anymore, Christine, I think it's beautiful. I cherish it. But you are one with the light. And you would give that up? For what? For… me?"

She pulled his hand off her shoulder and pressed a kiss to his gloved palm. "For _us_," she corrected. And she knew she was right. In the future, when she tried to gaze and wander what life would be like tomorrow, they were always, at least, together.

His eyes feasted on her like he'd never seen anything as beautiful or as sad. "What have I done to you?" he asked quietly, enclosing her hand in his own with a desperate tenderness. "What have I done?"

Together, they walked back home.

--


	6. Act VI

--

Erik woke her up the next morning by touching her shoulder.

"What are you doing in my room?" was her first question.

"I have something for you to do," he sang lightly, brushing back her curls to get a better look at her. "And you must be awake for it, of course."

"What time is it?" was her second.

He looked dreamily into her eyes. "Well, it's actually early evening, but it's morning time in our world, so you must get up out of bed!"

"Now?"

"Yes."

"May I get dressed first?"

"Yes."

She stared at him, not relinquishing the hold of her cover over her. "You have to leave, Erik."

He laughed once and went for the door. "You wouldn't mind if I stayed, and you know it," he said to her, and she could feel heat in her cheeks. He laughed again, and then shut the door behind him.

She bolted the door after he left and then spent a few moments trying to rouse herself in a more dignified manner. Now that she was up, she wasn't quite as groggy, so with an impatient sigh, she pulled down a dark pink dress and began getting ready. When she was suitable, she went downstairs to find him. He was in the doorway of the kitchen, putting something into a paper bag.

"What's that?" she asked, and he looked up at her, beaming.

"You take such a long time to dress!" he exclaimed. "Really, you must learn to be faster than that. Another thing we will work on, I suppose." He took her arm with one hand as she frowned at him. "Don't look at me like that!" he scolded, tightening his hand on hers and pulled her through the golden room and to the odd door.

"Where are we going?" she asked curiously.

He walked her towards the heart of darkness for a minute before answering. "Last night, I asked you if you really wanted to be a ghost. That's what you would have to be, if you stayed with me. I so want you with me, Christine," he whispered, and his voice couldn't hide the absolute obsessive longing in it. "But you must be completely accustomed to my world. You must be sure of your decision, lest I force something upon you that it turns out you didn't want. So you are going to come with me, and I am going to show you something miraculous."

"You are speaking very mysteriously today," she told him.

He gave a small smile. "I thought that was every day?"

Struggling slightly to keep up with his words, she said, "I want to stay with you." It was becoming her safe house, that phrase. As long as she said it, no harm would come to her.

She didn't like being on his right side either, where the mask was covering his face. Quickly, she switched sides, darting around to his left hand and taking that instead. If this bemused Erik in any way, he didn't show it—only switched the paper bag to his other hand.

"What if something bad happened?" he asked slowly. "Would you know how to escape?"

"Escape? From where?"

He was frowning.

"From here," he indicated the world around them.

For a moment, she was stumped.

"No," she said.

He stopped so abruptly that she was ahead of him several feet before she realized he had stopped. She groped for his hand, and automatic reaction, but he didn't take it. His eyes were focused on something beyond her; on something not physically there, but a particular thought.

She groped for his hand, an automatic reaction. "Erik…?"

He seemed to find her again, and said very clearly, "It resembles a circle. There is only one dead end, and it is a long way from here. Each path will lead you to another, until it reaches its destination. That was goes to the staircase in the cellar—" he pointed left—"the lake—" he pointed straight—" and back to my lovely home." He pointed right, and gave a little smile, as if he found something amusing about his statement.

"It all looks the same!" she said.

"No, it doesn't," he said. "Look at the design, Christine. See how it's rounded here, or how the path widens? You must learn all these things. It's essential."

"Are you planning on something bad happening to me?" she asked fearfully, and he gave her a disappointed look.

"_I_ am trying to help you," he said irritably. The paper bag crinkled in his hand when he moved his arm. "I'm giving you something to do. I am already taking you with me against my better judgment. I want you to understand… Be the one person in the world whom I can depend on for understanding. Be grateful."

"What's in the bag?" she questioned, unwilling to give up. "And I _don't_ understand," she added unhelpfully.

His hand curled it up protectively and he glared at her. "Why are you ruining everything?" he said furiously. "This is for _you_… to protect you… You have to choose one or the other!"

"Erik, what are you talking about--?"

He let go of her and began walking straight, stowing the small bag into his jacket. "Find your own way back, then. Do _not_ follow me, lest you ruin something else!"

Bewildered, it took her a moment to think about anything, and then she went after him, determined not to let him out of her sight. But both passageways were completely empty. It was as if he had walked into rock and vanished.

An odd sort of fear stabbed her; he was nothing more than a ghost.

"Erik?" she called, and her voice wavered. "I know you're here, watching me."

Everything was very quiet.

She crossed her arms. "This was no way to awaken someone!" she snapped at the wall. Her hands reached out, trying to sense him, trying to know where he was.

"Please take me home," she said beseechingly. "This isn't very nice… I'm sorry I angered you… But I don't know how to get home. Erik?"

As the minute's passes, she grew more and more bothered. If he was still here observing her, then he was being very rude indeed. Worse was the alternative; what if he really _had_ left her all by herself? But he would gives into her cries. She would beg him.

He did not appear.

Eventually, she made her way down the friendliest looking path that glowed with the same, odd green light from the cavern room. "This must be towards the lake," she said aloud. The rocks crackled beneath her shoes.

She couldn't work up any tears, so she whined. When that grew tiring, she pouted. "If you don't take me home, I'll leave!" she threatened. "Come and get me—this isn't funny anymore! I don't like this, how could you do this to me if you loved me?"

It felt as though it had been a thousand minutes as she felt her way through each shallow tunnel. She began to recognize which ones attached to others, which ones were more shadowed, and which ones were small and cramped. She opened one of her scabs on her fingers against the crisp rock, and it made a dark reddish brown stain against the corner so she knew how many times she passed it. At one point, she thought she could feel possibly the dampness of the lake, but she only went in circles as she walked and walked. Finally she sat on the ground, her head back, and waited.

"Christine! What are you doing?"

Erik materialized right in front of her, looking curiously at her. His mood appeared to be buoyant, a pleased manner, a feeling she did not share. She sat up instantly, flooding with relief at the sight of him and thinking of how beautiful he looked in the darkness… but she had never been more displeased with him!

He looked so immensely arrogant in that moment that she rose to her feet against the wall threw out her hand to smack him, but he caught her wrists and held them in a tight embrace.

"Excuse me?" he said immediately, drawing her closer to him when she tried to pull away.

"You abandoned me!"

"I did not!" he retorted indignantly. "How could you accuse me of such?"

Looking at him closely, it was easy to picture him as guilty, covered in black and his eyes looking decidedly villainous beneath the shadow of his mask. His injured voice on made her pity him for a second.

"So you were here the whole time," she scoffed. "You were here and you did nothing when I called for you!"

"Yes, I heard that," he said sternly. "Sound travels well down here, you must learn to be quiet. And you must stop with the childish pleading, it does nothing but create headaches. I _told_ you, I was busy, I had something to do. I would have take you, but you were insatiably curious and that could have been severely problematic." He suddenly sighed and flexed both of his hands in her direction. "You could have gone back home easily, had you used your pretty little head rather than simply complaining about it."

Her emotions fluttered between confusion and anger. "You _did_ abandon me!"

Erik made an impatient noise in the back of his throat and shook his head. For the first time, Christine noticed a dark scar beneath his left jaw, maybe an inch across. Her eyes fixated on it, and some of her anger evaporated.

But not by very much.

"I just thought that was silly and a complete waste of time," she said irritably. "Was it fun for you to hear me cry to you while you were off doing—who knows what? A game? I am cold and tired and I was actually quite frightened – quite frightened that you wouldn't come back! And now you just stand here and act as if—don't touch me!"

He had seized her right around the waist and lifted her into the air and against him, swaddled like a baby. It was a throw reaction that she automatically grabbed him back to keep from falling, which granted him immediate access to press her against his body.

His expression was smug, but she glowered. "I'll scream. I'll ruin my voice."

"Try it," he warned threateningly, but it was disbelieving; he knew she wouldn't do something like that.

It left her with no leverage, physically or mentally, so she looked down at her hands as he walked down the path. She could feel the warmth of his touch under her legs and just hardly under her waist. She had released him initially, but now she wanted to reattach herself to him, like a comforting factor. He was so tantalizingly close, and she sucked in a breath looking up at him in awe.

He noticed nothing. "I knew you wouldn't dare to," he said, and it was a moment before she realized he was speaking of her screaming.

She watched him look down at her, then away again.

"Kiss me," she demanded innocently.

His eyes flickered back to hers. "That's very tempting," he admitted.

When he passed the corner, it threw his white face into shadow, catching only a faint gleam from his eyes. As they came back into the light, he was thrown into a brilliant glare that made him seem unworldly and powerful.

She wanted his lips on hers so badly in that instant that she bit them to keep them back.

"I can walk," she reminded him.

"Nonsense," was his reply. "If you could have walked home, you would have done so already." He flashed a wide, diabolical smile in her direction. It was too much for her heart rate to handle. She pushed herself against his arms and crushed her lips against his.

She wanted to taste that darkness. She wanted to taste that guilt on his lips, to merge herself with him, so there would be no telling who was the enemy and who was the victim.

For a second, she though he was shoving her away—then she thought he was dropping her out of shock. But he was only releasing his grip on her so her feet touched the ground, his hands holding her arms, so he could kiss her back.

His force surprised her—as if he had been longing for her skin as much as she had been for his. It was still strange for her to think of him like this, when everything had come on so unexpectedly. He was always off-limits for thinking this way, and now it felt like it was almost encouraged.

A strange energy burst through her as her lips parted and inhaled him. She had never done this before, and she felt inadequate and inexperienced. Surely Erik would want something more passionate, something more fiery… was she a disappointment? There was no deformity here, nothing that would make her recoil. His lips felt normal to her, and he tasted just how she would imagine man would taste. The surge of energy hit again and tugged her arms around his neck and felt his hands seize at her waist and pull.

She was light-headed, and it scared her—she jerked away unwillingly, her arms not moving, her head turned in pure, overwhelming sensation.

He pulled away too, startled. His eyes were wide and his jaw was slack, in the most vulnerable position she had ever seen him.

"I'm sorry," they both said at the same time.

"No, I'm not," he changed. He reacted first, reaching out and taking a handful of her hair. "Do you love me?" he murmured calmly.

"Yes." The answer came easily, naturally.

Without releasing her hair, he grazed his lips across her forehead and then the tip of her nose. "I like hearing that at last," he said carefully. "I waited a very long time for it, did you know?"

She nodded imperceptibly, but he caught her head and held it still. "No, of course you do not know. But that's fine. I'll take you how you are."

Abruptly, he released all but her hand and tugged her forward. She followed without speaking, afraid to break the air, which had suddenly become her captor, holding her away from him.

--

He disappeared as soon as they were home, and did not emerge from his room for several hours. He looked tired and hassled, but sat across from her at the table.

"I'll agree it was a poor choice," he admitted at dinner. "Perhaps we'll try again at a more convenient time."

"Perhaps we'll try again never," Christine suggested.

He smirked at her. "The more you disagree with it, the more exciting it seems to me."

"You're very intelligent," she said a little fiercely. "But my mind doesn't work the same way yours does. How much more can my head hold, what with all this music you're forcing upon me? Pitches, lyrics, composers, dates…"

"You know your music well!" Erik said indignantly, looking shocked. "It comes naturally now, just like I knew it would. You have a_ natural_ talent. You have become a very great musician, Christine, and I trust you can apply your capacity for knowledge elsewhere."

She paused, embarrassed. Never had she received higher praise.

"No, it's not your music skills that concern me," he continued thoughtfully. "Or even your sense of direction. It's your confidence… your ability to face the world, to face the challenges as simple as finding your way home in an unfamiliar place." He scowled. "I do not want you weak here. You must take control. This is _your_ world now. You must own it."

"You are actually telling me I need to… face my own insecurities?" she asked, hardly able to contain her mocking tone. "You think _I_ need the confidence to face the world?"

There was something almost amused in his expression. "Do you disagree?" he asked, dignified in his questions.

"I simply find it insufferable to be told by _you_."

"I don't want you to be like me, " he said blandly.

"I'm not," she protested.

His look was sad. "Christine… You _are_. Unfortunately, you are."

"I'm.." The words died on her lips, and she could only stare at him in undisguised awe.

"Christine?"he said softly.

She didn't answer.

His voice morphed into a melodious drawl. "Christine…"

This time, it was impossible to disobey. She raised her head and met his gaze, like a child waiting to be punished. The grandfather clock could be heard in the gold room, ticking with a dull repetition.

"Does that make you sad?" he pushed in the same voice.

The napkin she had in her lap was nearly symmetrical, she noticed. The corners were folded over, matched until they were a perfect fit. It took her a moment before she realized her hands had been obsessively folding it for over a minute.

When he was kind, it made her feel unworthy. When he grew angry, she only grew more enamored with him. But this sympathy he seemed to be bestowing on her… she did not know how to handle it.

"Why won't you answer me?" he demanded sharply, all trace of his seductive voice gone; he could not control it in his temper. "Why won't you look at me?"

"I'm not as dark as you," she mumble childishly, afraid to remain in silence. "I can't be like you… I won't! I… I think I'll retire now."

He rose as she did, his entire body tight and displeased with her, she could see. Why he wasn't pushing her further, forcing her to answer, she did not know—but she couldn't deal with him tonight, not when he had so blatantly accused her of—of—she didn't even know what!

As she passed, he caught her arm and swung her almost violently around to face him, capturing her in the folds of his embrace.

"I'm sorry for doing everything to you," he murmured, not sounding sorry at all. "But this _is_ what you've always wanted, even if you haven't realized it yet. And I can be patient for a little while longer until you do. You _are_ as dark as me, Christine, and you always have been. And yet…" He fingered the one lock of hair that always fell into her face. "…and yet, you pushed it away, while I embraced. Well, now we will hold onto it together. Demons don't always succeed in seducing their angels—" his voice dropped to a provocative whisper, "—but we have defyed the odds thus far. Something is _wonderful _about us, Christine--" His voice broke off as his hands tightened on her arms, piercing and as powerful as ice.

She could still hear him laughing hysterically as she went up the steps.

--


	7. Act VII

"Come with me," he said from the doorway.

Christine looked up from her musical score, uncertain. "I don't want you to leave me in the catacombs again tonight," she said unabashedly.

He crossed his arms. He was dressed in his usual all black today, looking absolutely breath-taking framed by the green doorway. "It's not up to you to tell me what I'll do with you," he said coldly. "This is the second time I have extended this offer to you. Do you want to come with me or not?"

She blinked. "Yes."

He walked away to the front door around the stone.

The music score fluttered to the ground. "I'm coming!" she said hastily, patting her hair and slipping on her shoes. "Is this _out_ out? Might you tell me where we're going?"

He waited for her with appraising eyes. "Does it matter?" he said roughly. "I said, out."

She followed him anxiously through the dark tunnels, which she admittedly was quite familiar with now, and through the cellars where stagecraft was kept. Cold air seeped under a poorly built side-door. Without being too obnoxious, she kept her gaze on him at all times, utterly seduced with longing about the way he moved; if only _she_ could move like that, she would never have had to sit through a single ballet rehearsal!

"Out?" she asked again, pulling on her own curls and straightening her dress.

"Out," he repeated shortly, and taking her hand in a painful grip, he pulled her outside.

It was not cold outside, nor dark. The sun hung low in the sky, its feeble rays obscured by thick, foreboding clouds. People strolled far away in the distance, mostly on the opposite side of the street, their eyes darting around, their voices creating a mingling buzz.

"Erik, are you sure?" she wheedled, hanging onto his arm like a small child.

"Walk with me," was his reply.

He switched her hand so that he was on the outside of the street and she was tucked in by the buildings and took sure, slow steps. They passed most without event, although every now and then, one would stop and look back suspiciously.

Christine grew increasingly edgy with every passing second. It was a large step for her to be thrust so suddenly back into the world of other human beings… She almost felt as if she were no longer a part of them. These were people who did not understand, who knew nothing of her life or Erik's… They did not understand how lonely she had been after her father had died, or how desperate she had been for any attention at all… They did not understand Erik—they assumed and assaulted him with their dark eyes and upturned noses. She hated them all, she decided quite passionately, all of them with their plain airs and their luxuries, and their toneless, flat voices!

"You look angry," Erik commented, and she turned a little to see he was watching her with sullen interest.

"People are staring," she said, trying to work her face back into a relaxed countenance.

He shrugged. "Not very much. Not nearly as much as normal. Is it because I am with you? A lonesome, masked monster prowling the streets creates far less attention that a man and his lady strolling in the evening."

Christine was surprisingly stung by this. So she had been brought out only to test his experiment; only to see how many stares he would receive? "This is what you wanted?" she asked, a little incredulously. "You want to be around other people?"

He looked at her with unfathomable eyes. "Not other people." He paused. "Just you."

Slightly mollified, she tightened her grip in his hand and drew herself closer to his figure. As the sun lowered, so did the amount of people. They walked past a cluster of shops and restaurants; Erik offered sitting out at the café, but she declined.

"Erik," she started carefully at once point. "Have you seen my hair comb? The one with little rubies at the end?"

He looked at her blankly, then frowned a little. "I haven't seen it for some time."

"I can't find it… But I'm sure I brought it down with me."

"It must be around somewhere," he encouraged, a fulfilling light in his eyes. "We will find it."

At the corner of the last street they passed, the pathway crumbled into grassy plains and stone walls. Night had really fallen, making everything slightly blurred in the distance. To her surprise, Erik pulled her up the earthy slope without breaking pace.

"Where are we going?" she asked breathlessly, her hand limp in his with uncertainty.

"I want to show you something," he said quietly. "I want to see what you think of it."

His hands guided her up the precarious footing as they approached a forestry area of France Christine had never even seen.

"It was a part of an old castle at some point," he said informatively, keeping his hand on her while she followed. "It was pulled apart sometime last century, and now bits and pieces adorn the border. This particular piece was so very run down… but once the Opera was done, I had nothing to do, and you will find I am not a man who can live peacefully without finding something to amuse myself. So I put my efforts in Drimvere…" He looked around dispassionately, his eyes grazing the horizon. "I think you'll like it."

The wind grew slightly chilly as they walked for several more minutes, until a great forest of trees came into view. Erik walked right into those too, and she was about to ask how far they were going in there when he stopped and gestured wordlessly to the looming structure before them.

Her first thought was that it looked haunted, but that seemed terribly ironic, so she brushed it instantly from her mind. The trees were scarcer here, so the tip of the stone roof was outlined by a purplish-blue sky.

"How pretty," she said absently.

His hand was warm against hers and she had never felt more at peace with the world. And when she shivered, he enfolded her within his grasp and suddenly touched his lips to hers so that they were completely connected.

"I knew you would like it," he said.

.

Christine was a 'good ghost', as Erik put it. While he spent his time on tricks and clever ways to amuse himself that often came at the expense of others, she tried to be the one who watched over the Opera with a protective eye. She wandered around backstage, careful not to disturb anything, but perhaps straightening a curtain or moving a prop in the right direction.

Erik thought this was very funny and sough to undo her work whenever he could, so when she heard him behind her whilst she was carefully re-organizing the costumes, she assumed her had only come to tease her and did not turn around.

"I need you home," he said flatly from behind her, and she saw him standing there, unusually grave.

She set down her things without question. "What's the matter?"

"I said I want you home. Do not make me repeat myself."

It was very quiet; there was not even the sound of water or objects upstairs. It struck her as very ominous.

Too afraid to ask again, she simply followed him until he latched open the door in the rock and pointed her in.

"I'm not questioning you," she said at once in a rush, "but you must tell me what is wrong, if something terrible has happened, or if you're hurt—"

He grabbed her and shook her to silence her, but his eyes were bright, and he said, "Hurt? I am not hurt. So kind of you to care, Christine, so very kind…" Without letting go of her, he pulled her over to the table. "You just must be careful now…" He hesitated, his hands resting slightly on the table top. He seemed to stare at her intently, evaluating her. "You need to see this." he said finally.

It was a small newspaper she didn't recognize, but on the folded top page was a large picture of her.

It was an obituary.

She picked it up and scanned it hungrily… _tragic stardom…signs of mental illness…missing in suspicious affair… depression…by her own hand…_

Her voice was shaky; it demanded an explanation. "Erik?"

He took the newspaper from her carefully, and folded it so she couldn't see the picture. "I assure you, the death had nothing to do with me," he answered softly. Truthfully. "You understand you have been missing for many weeks, last seen in the cellars of the Opera. It seems a young woman took her own life down here a few days ago. She was found yesterday." His eyes were solemn. "I had nothing to do with the girl's death, Christine, I assure you."

The way he spoke was so utterly _intoxicating_… It stirred her stomach and made her ache for something around her, holding her tightly. "But what does this have to do with _me_?"

Erik watched her for a long moment. "You were identified by Raoul de Chagny," he said very slowly. "One of the cleaners thought the girl looked familiar. Upon hearing the description, your young Raoul came at once." A strange light danced in his eyes. "It seems… his grief was terrible to behold."

The tone in his voice left no doubt that he gloried in Raoul's grief. There was no doubt that Erik did not care what grieved Raoul.

With a dull realization, Christine found that she too, had very little pity to spare for the man who was once a future prospect for marriage. _I am as terrible as he is…_

She pushed her thoughts away and tugged the newspaper back out of Erik's hands, turning it to the next page… _Viscount de Chagny, only living son of Count Gordon de Chagny… inconsolable… Arranged funeral for tomorrow, midday…_

She looked up interestedly. "May I go to my own funeral?"

Erik took the newspaper back from her and shut it in the table drawer. "Christine, you shouldn't say such morbid things," he whispered, pulling her into his arms. She wondered briefly if Erik had ever been mistaken for dead, a parallel of her own situation. It was too quick and too clean. Too easy for them _both_ to be ghosts.

"Are you sure you had nothing to do with this?" she pressed, looking sordidly at the two colors that separated his face. "You can tell me… You must tell me."

"I had nothing to do with the girl's death," he repeated stubbornly.

She sighed, defeated by the lure of his voice, the strength of his words. "I believe you," she told him.

A smile broke out over his half-features. "Good," he said. "Because I love you."

.

They were searching for the Opera Ghost, she discovered. He was the prime subject in the girl's murder. All assuming it was Christine, that made three members of the Opera who had perished in the past year, presumably by Erik's hand. The articles were very interesting to read, as if was clear the reporters did not know whether to treat this as a murderer or an old legend gone wrong. However, authorities paced the corridors, keeping sharp eyes for the legendary shadow. Others kept watch in the foyers and the streets, convinced it was only a maddened criminal who would eventually make his escape.

Meanwhile, the papers began being filled with descriptions and accusations. Every night, Erik and Christine would carefully smuggle themselves outside a hidden door and it would be a game to see who could come back with the newspaper first.

Erik always won.

They would read it together on the tattered black couch in the cavern room. Erik sat on the end, dragging his long, cold fingers through her hair at a steady pace. If he wasn't doing this, he would holding the newspaper, and not let her see all that she wanted. Thus, they both won: he was permitted to touch her, and she gained control of the paper.

"If they see me now, all hell will break loose," she mused, idly turning a page only to be met with another picture of her, this one a sketch that made her look much prettier than she really was. The picture-Christine seemed very young, even to her own eyes. "I must be twice as careful."

"You should always be twice as careful," Erik murmured lightly, his fingers working their way down to her temples and cheekbones. "Hmmmm." He stretched each curl out, as if it were a spring, and then massaged it back into position. He suddenly leaned up, so he was directly over her face. "You know, no one ever sees me when I wander around."

"People only see the shadow of a ghost."

"But not me," he continued determinedly. "Never me. Just… a ghost. An apparition. That is all."

His tone was over-confident, and his hand wound tightly in her hair. Christine would have loved to take his hand, or even touch his face, but she knew it would not be allowed.

"Wonderful," she said carefully. "What are you trying to say?"

"It would really be fun, would it not, to have people see you?" he chuckled. "The looks on their faces… their terror… seeing a new, young ghost of the most beautiful woman, come to take revenge on them all."

"Revenge?" she questioned.

"For letting you exist in the chorus for so long," Erik said, and his voice seethed with repressed fury. "For wasting such exquisite talent. All those years."

"My voice was not _good_ all those years!" she protested in wonder at his obvious anger and disapproval. "Erik, my voice has only been decent that past year that I had you."

He looked affronted. "Your voice is unchangeable," he said coldly. "It can only be honed and polished, as I have done for it. Anyone who fails to recognize the beauty before final structure is wasting the talent they simply cannot accept. In doing that, they wasted you. And you ought to have your revenge."

She stared at him with blank, wide eyes. His profile turned delicately away from her, and she simply sat there, staring at her master with unashamed wonder.

At long last, she worked up the slightest courage and kissed him on his cheek. "Everything turned out fine in the end," she said comfortingly. Her arm trailed down his to rest on the cool palm of his left hand. "I seek no revenge—only you."

"How silly," he said absently, and for a moment she was wounded, and she withdrew quietly, prepared to go obediently up to her room. He grabbed her wrist loosely, his touch sending an excited bubble through her midriff.

"To seek what your already have," he finished quietly.

.


	8. Act VIII

**A/N: So I just had major surgery on Wednesday. I can't decide if this is good or bad, because I am in a lot of pain and feel absolutely crazy from all these pain medications, so I might not be posting a lot over the next few weeks. On the other hand... I can't move so I will literaly by laying down, doing nothing for the next two weeks. So maybe I will be posting more. Who knows?**

**This is my favorite chapter. So far.**

When she woke up in the white room, it was stuffy and hot. Foolishly, she called out, "Is there a fire, Erik?" before wrenching back the covers and padding out into the stairwell.

"Erik?" she said again into the cavern room, which was the same warmer temperature. All the doors were open but the door to his room, which she pressed her ear anxiously to—nothing.

The gold room was empty, with all doors closed and locked. An uncomfortable feeling was creeping up inside of Christine now, a bit of panic with confusion at the sudden desertation of this palace. She went around to each room, patiently knocking, but everything remained still and quiet.

Her senses told her he was nearby, so she crept uncertainly to the front door and lifted it off its hinges, so it moved on tightly coiled springs and shifted forward alarmingly by itself.

The shadow swooped onto her instantly, latching onto her waist tightly. "How are you out?" it demanded, shaking her a little. "Christine, do you hear me? Are you awake?"

That was a curious question, but she disregarded it carefully. "Do you smell that?" she asked impatiently, now seeking the assurance that this uncomfortable sense was not entirely in her imagination.

"Fire," Erik said knowingly.

"You don't seem concerned."

His grip on her arm relaxed at her elbow and pulled her forward to point up the wooden rafters. "They are using the furnace in the last act of the show upstairs. The warm air is channeled into the vents and directed down here." A dark grille covered the lower wall. "That is level with the street, where the smoke can be safely displaced."

"Did you build this?" she asked interestedly.

"No," he said bitterly "I would have made it better."

She pulled on him. "I want to see it. I've never noticed it upstairs before."

"Of course you did," he scoffed. "It was used in _Faust _and many others."

"Let's go see together."

He smiled a little at her enthusiasm. "Miss it, do you?" he asked slyly.

She twirled away from him, picking one of the many directions. His hand tugged on her. "Not that way," he said. "Besides, the show will be over by the time we arrive. And you're still going the wrong way."

Christine was just as stubborn as him. "Then show me the right way!"

He laughed, and it was beautiful. She wanted to make him laugh more often.

She switched directions, and he did not stop her, but the almost-silent movement behind her made her positive he was following her. She managed to get all the way to the wrought-iron passage, with its winding slope upwards.

"Very good," said the ghost behind her. "There is a faster way, but I will not be picky."

She turned, and he was flawless in the low light. The creamy alabaster of the mask blended in with the pale white of his face so that you could hardly tell he was even wearing a mask at all.

She smiled at him, and held out her hand. He regarded her warily.

"No one is down here but you and I," she pointed out gently. "Do you cover your face for my benefit or yours?"

It was funny how his whole being changed to one of charades. It was as if all of his confidence fled and insecurity burst out, so he put twice as much effort in to reclaim his dominating manner. It reminded her of the younger boys at the Opera, all who would stand tall on the tips of their toes to seem older and stronger than their feminine partners, who were admittedly just as petite as they were.

In those few moments, the moment has passed, and she no longer had the burning desire to see his tattered flesh; he had stepped out of the glow from the light.

Honestly, she was afraid to fall into the lake as they continued their pursuit of upstairs, but Erik stayed on the far side, surely getting the bottoms of his shoe wet in his attempt to keep her off the shore.

"Where exactly are we going?" he asked once on the opposite side. The air felt more normal here, almost as cool as usual.

"The auditorium, of course. I assume that is the only place where they put on shows here?"

She expected a reprimand for her tongue, but he said nothing and she turned to see him holding the edge of her dressing gown delicately, his fingers laced through each intricate design, holding it steadily off the ground.

"I did not want it to get dirty," he replied quietly, not looking up. His fingers tightened their hold, as if reinforcing that he would not be letting it go any time soon.

"I—alright," she said distractedly, and continued a few hesitant steps forward, glancing a little behind her. But Erik simply kept the dressing gown off the ground as he said he would, his eyes innocently downcast.

Before she could see, she could hear… The floor changed to one of glossed wood and the walls were smooth before she realized where they were. Through the plaster, the babble of hundreds of voices rang out mercilessly.

"The show's over." she surmised.

"I t_old_ you," he said immediately. "Why didn't you listen?"

Completely enthralled with her new observation of the world she had once known, she ignored him and darted back into the space between the walls, quickly and unexpectedly flying away—only when she turned, he was only inches behind her. She made a face at him.

"You look beautiful," he said in reply.

She stretched out her fingers, looking down at the belled sleeves of her black, woven dressing gown. Christine was not thinking about how it accentuated each of her curves, or how it clung to all the right places to give her a seductive silhouette, but it finally occurred to her that maybe somebody else was.

Her nightshift underneath it was modest enough, shielding her skin from the sheer lacing, but the robe dragged long and enticing, making her a striking figure in the dark.

She could not help it; she turned just a little, tilting back her head, and watched with awe as his eyes slid down the curve of her neck all the way down to her waist. It was… flattering.

He met her eyes, and the look in them was much darker than she had expected, almost in anger, but not quite in temper. Lazily, without thinking, she stretched her pale arms to him, and he took one step forward and swept the lacing away from her waist, to press his hands against her back and trail his lips down her neck.

"Ah…" she said in wonder as his lips delicately brushed her soft skin, going from behind her ear to the tip of her collarbone. With the soft lace of the dressing gown wound in his fingers, she had never felt more feminine or daring. While every detail of her screamed _woman!_, everything of him screamed just as loudly _man_!

They made a nice pair.

"Erik?" she said, and he stopped, his lips brushing hers as she inhaled. It was one of those moments where everything froze, and he caught her stare avidly as she stared back.

Unwillingly, she giggled.

Naturally, he broke off, to demand to know what was the matter, and she took on him, running through the hidden banisters, high on adrenaline.

She wanted to be chased.

Of course he followed; he would never miss an opportunity to pursue her.

They were quiet children, immersed in their game of tag through the half-shadows. The stir of voices still from the front made a rumbling accompaniment that only added to the thrill of the game. Bravely, she ventured out from one of the partions, darting into a box, and cautiously approaching the rail to be sure there was no one left in the auditorium.

The curtains were closed, and there was activity on the other side or large sets moving, of cast members flitting around to clean up after the show. The entire theatre was empty, the lights turned down low, giving it an eerie, mystical look.

"How beautiful," she said to nobody in particular.

How many times had Christine been in this theatre? And how many times had she truly appreciated it? With the lights gone, the finery vanished, the seats left bare, the glitz was missing. The only thing left was sheer majesty, golden ornamentations decorating every inch of the architecture.

"How beautiful," Erik echoed, always a step behind her. He closed the partition behind them, tugging down the curtain. "I knew you missed it."

She reached out her hand to him again, and he swept over, interlacing his fingers into her own, and gazing down the balcony with her. He kissed her, pressing her back over the railing, and she felt her stomach drop in fear as she nearly fell back into nothingness. On instinct, she grabbed him tightly, and he laughed.

"You didn't think I would let you fall" he asked languidly, but he did not allow her to righten herself, keeping her back tilted over so he could press into her.

"What if we're seen?"

"There is no one here."

She tilted back her head completely, to see the upside-down view of the seats below, and he ran his cool lips down her skin, his tongue warm. She shivered.

Pushing at him almost playfully, she ducked her head right into him, burying her head into his shoulder, letting her become upright. In an instant, he swiveled them, reversing their positions; there was a moment in which he paused, moving only slightly, and then he had vaulted the entire rail and disappeared over the edge.

He completely vanished! Oddly confident that nothing could hurt him, and yet still concerned for him, she whispered, "Erik?" before leaning forward over the edge of the high balcony, to see if he had landed smoothly on the floor below.

The dark shadow beneath her moved like a shadow, its whirl seemingly erotic in the odd light. "You should come down and join me," he said in his silver tone.

She leaned over the railing, as if to pull closer to him. Her curls had not been cut for such a long time, and they went past her waist; now they hung past the golden rail and towards the floor.

He smiled at her, genuine.

It was difficult to find a hidden way into the theatre from her location. The foyer remained packed with people and it was wonderfully exciting to hear them while she ran around like a ghost through her deserted home.

She nearly ran into him as she darted through one of the aisles, but before she could turn around, there was a swoop of air as he was gone. Holding back giddy laughter, she shot down the other aisle and this time really did run into him; he caught her and steadied her with one swift motion, and then he attacked her.

Or at least, for a moment, she thought he had. In reality, he was pushing her towards the curtain, and she fell behind it as a few voices came around the corner of the back door. She remained, oddly petrified on the floor, while Erik stood over her, making no move in the darkness. She met his eyes and he stared back, still as a statue.

The voices faded away after only a moment, and then he disappeared.

"Not fair!" she whispered, crawling upright but remaining on her hands and knees.

At the sound of another door opening, she did not hide this time, but rose and flew up the aisle, running straight into him for the second time that night. She launched herself at him, kissing him fully on the mouth.

For the first time, he responded in such a way that a surge of unfamiliar energy shot through her. His own lips seemed to be finding every pressure point on her own, and her lips parted as her tongue touched his hesitatingly. He terrified and thrilled her as he molded against her, his tongue parting her lips with almost a violent force. And suddenly she could feel him—r_eally_ feel him—and she wanted him.

There was another loud noise, presumably from the back door, and they both leapt apart as if they'd been electrocuted. The two children scattered; the dark shape seeming to melt into the shadows, and the smaller shape simply taking off into the imaginary mist altogether.

.

Christine heard him outside of her room. He was walking back and forth, as if in a frenzy.

"Erik?"

The pacing stopped instantly.

"I'm not sleeping. It's too hot."

He was very quiet, and then he said, "It shouldn't last much longer."

She slithered out of bed and pressed her ear against the door. The sounds of him shifting his weight repeatedly and the slight exhalation of his breath told her he was only inches away.

"Let me in," he purred, so silently that she would not have heard it from any other spot in the room, besides her current location right next to the door.

Her hand slightly gripped the handle, wanting nothing more than to open her door for him.

"No," she said, just to see what he would say.

The steady rhythm continued: the shifting, the breathing.

There was a grinding sound against the door, like something sharp being dragged across it. She stared at it, eyes wide, wondering if the door was about to break. But the sound stopped abruptly and then he said, "Do not open the door. Stay in there a little longer. Then you can come down for breakfast."

All noises of movement were gone.

Instantly, she swung her door open to the empty hallway. The carpet showed an indentation where he had just been standing, and the door had several long, pale marks on it, like the finish had been stripped away by fingernails…

Across the hall, a piano escalated into a mournful tune. It was the saddest thing she could remember hearing in her life.

.


	9. Act IX

**A/N: I lied; this is my favorite chapter.**

**The story is now rated M, as I said it would be.**

**Review!**

"My funeral was yesterday," Christine announced, folding up the paper.

Erik rose up at once, snatching it away from her. His eyes had been tired all day, and she was impatient with the way he seemed to be subtly ignoring her. "I told you to stop reading this," he snapped, crumpling it effortlessly into a tiny ball. "Enough resting. Get back in here."

She followed somewhat morosely, attempting to spurn him a little farther. "I don't want to sing anymore. I've been singing all day. I'm _dead_ from it," she added conveniently.

His stare was utterly merciless. "What does that mean?"

"It means I am tired. And I want to do something else."

"…Something else?"

She paused at his evident discomfort, and tried to assess if he was angry or simply inconsiderate.

"You do not want to sing with me?" he said bluntly.

"Of course I want to sing with you—"

"Then come in here, and don't say stupid things."

She responded by giving him the absolute dirtiest look she could muster. His reply was twice as frightening.

"I want to go do something else, or I am going upstairs to help with rehearsals," she said. His expression disappeared at once to one of vague annoyance.

"Stop helping them, the bastards don't need your help," he said stiffly, crossing his arms. "They ought to be able to fine without any help, you know that."

Her eyes bored into his again. "Stop arguing with me." She was beginning to enjoy herself, in a sick way. She wondered how long it would last.

"Stop arguing with _me!_"

"_You_ are the one who started it! You won't let me read my own paper! You won't let me go upstairs! You won't even let me rest!"

There was an awkward silence Christine hadn't expected. In the cavernous room, she didn't realize her voice could grow so loud.

"Fine," he said, and his cold, dead tone was like a slap in the face. It had dropped to a low octave that for some reason made her think of him as a murderer, a sinner… "Go do something else. Leave me alone."

"Erik, don't be unrea—"

"You have _no_ idea how u_nreasonable _I can be!" he thundered, and the vibrations of sound echoed off the thick walls. He went past the music study and slammed the door to this bedroom.

She had never felt so…so… childish and silly. She had never meant for any of that to happen. Singing was tiring, and she had been forced to do it all day. Singing wasn't even fun down here unless he was singing with her, but he had just stared at her the entire time, providing no accompaniment for her thin voice. How was that fair?

The silence swirled around her.

She crept meekly to the door. "Erik," she breathed through the keyhole. "I love you."

"I love you, too." His answer was sharp and concise, and sounded as though it were from the other side of the room. "Now go away."

.

He didn't emerge for the remainder of the day, so she went to sleep alone in her white room. She woke to see Erik about two feet away from her face.

She didn't even flinch.

His mask glittered from the gauze of sleep in her eyes. "What's wrong?" she whispered.

"Everything," he whispered back.

Without even really thinking about it, she scooted over to the right side of her bed, exposing a human-sized empty space next to her. It was an invitation. It was the natural thing to do.

He rose from his knees and seemed to slide effortlessly next to her. Against the white sheets, he stood out like the moon in a starless, night sky. The walls were white, the carpet was white, the dresser was white, her nightgown was white… everything rang of pureness, except him.

"Is it morning?" she asked softly.

"Who knows?" he replied. One hand came up and traced the shadow of a curl that hung over her cheek. "May… I touch you?"

Her heart churned with some sort of unfamiliar feeling. "You don't ever have to ask me," she managed, but she didn't remove her gaze from the curve of his back as he lay on his stomach on the white bed. The contrast was too striking to look away from… black and white… light and dark…

But when the tips of his fingers touched right below her eye, she shivered and goose bumps spread from her neck down to her chest and arms.

"It doesn't bother you, does it?" he asked, with his brow furrowed.

"Do it again," she begged, and he spread out his entire hand against her cheek. It warmed her up, and hit her with another shiver.

He laughed a little, a nervous sound.

"Christine." he said. He lay down beside her, and she grabbed the covers and came closer to him. "You have to stay with me."

"Of course, Erik. I am staying with you forever."

"Then don't you want to be my wife?"

She paused a little, unsure of what he was really asking. "The way I see it, I already am your wife."

"But you could leave any time, with no regrets?"

"No, I cannot leave."

He frowned, and pushed his hand across her cheek again. "Yes, you can," he argued quietly.

"Do you want me to leave?" she asked in horror.

He was silent at first, and for a moment, she was terrified that he was going to say yes. She lurched up in bed, still holding the sheet to her chest. "You want me to leave?" she sobbed. "Is it because I didn't want to sing? Do you not love me when I don't sing?"

He seemed utterly unmoved by her overdone outburst. "Lay back down, silly girl," he said flatly. "Your assumptions are completely implausible and inaccurate. I come to you, and you think I am going to tell you to leave?"

She lay back down. "Tell me what's wrong."

"No," he said calmly.

"Then I can't help you."

He sighed, as though she had just rejected him in the most inhumane way.

She turned her face away from him, looking up at the white ceiling. His dark color was still visible out of the corner of her eyes. "Are you going to touch me again?" she questioned.

"You want me to touch you again?" he asked carefully in response. "What does it feel like, when I touch you?"

She gasped at his frank words. "It feels…" His hand slipped past her ear and onto her neck and she automatically tilted her head up so he could have better access. "I don't know… Like your hand is touching my face. Only it feels nice." It almost tickled, but not in a way that she wanted to laugh. He kept his hand wrapped around the side of her neck, and then pulled her close and kissed the side of her face. She tilted up her head again, and then wondered if he minded.

"I can feel you right here when you touch me," she said, and she put her hand on her higher stomach. His eyes darted downward, and then slowly traveled back up to her lips. In an odd way, she burned for him, and when he moved uncomfortably, accompanied by a shaky breath while he stole glances at her, she knew he burned for her too.

"I want you to touch me," she whispered, wondering how much more forward she could get.

"I've never really touched anyone before," he admitted, flexing his fingers against her eyelashes.

"Well, you can touch me anytime you want," she said easily, moving her nose across his hand like a kitten.

He stopped at once and drew away. "Really?" he said in a hushed, reverent tone, and she paused, uncertain of what she should say. He fidgeted as he waited. "You shouldn't say those things unless you absolutely mean them," he said quietly.

"Let's sing all of those compilations you made for us tomorrow," she said in reply, and he seemed to understand her answer in a patient sort of way, and he stroked her hair like a child. "Would you like that?"

"Yes," he whispered. "Yes, I would."

.

A few days later, Erik told her he needed her to go away for a little while.

Christine was utterly taken aback. "What do you mean? Am I very bothersome?"

She could not make head nor tail of what he was implying with those words. _Go away_? Not that she would have ever admitted it to him in a thousand years, but it hurt her feelings quite a bit.

His face half in shadow as he watched her reaction, he would have been hard to read even without the mask. "Well, yes, actually. You are. But not in the way you're thinking. I won't be going anywhere, and I won't be sending you away. You just have to _go_ away. If I am upstairs, you are downstairs. If I am in here, you are not. Understand?"

"No."

"I just need quiet."

"I _am_ quiet," she said crossly.

"Christine," he said, exasperated. "Go play for a little while. If I hadn't said anything, you would not even have noticed the difference. Am I being so unreasonable?"

She could have easily taken it would good grace, but Christine had never liked being pushed aside by anyone. "How would _you_ react if _I_ asked for a little while by myself?"

He looked as though he rather regretted entering this conversation at all. "Why are you making this into such an ordeal?"

It was kind of him to ask, but she still shot him a dirty look. "Because it doesn't seem very nice. It isn't nice to just push me away."

He was asking for time alone, he wanted her to go away. He was rejecting her. Would this have happened if she had only let him take off her nightgown the other night and touch her…?

He stared at her for a minute, the expression in his eyes completely blank, and then he said, "You've worn that dress several times now. Not that I do not like it, but still… Haven't you any others ones?"

Christine was completely flabbergasted by this bizarre turn in conversation, her thoughts still on her terrible, naughty thoughts, that she had to think and repeat back what he had said in her mind before she could produce an answer. "This…this dress?" She gazed down at the black skirt and the dark green of the sleeves and collar, one of the few she had brought down with her. "It is… comfortable?"

"That won't do," he replied succinctly, observing her with a critical eye. "I wouldn't want you thinking I cannot provide for you. I can get you all the prettiest dresses in the world, Christine."

"Erik, Erik, we were talking about you wanting me to leave you alone for a little while—"

"You are such a clever girl, my sweet, you have no idea how much that pleases me. I want you looking as smart as you are."

Her head swimming with the turn of this conversation, she only grew silent and allowed this insane turn of subject.

And he was true to his word. Completely disregarding everything he had previously said about his 'alone time', he followed her around for the rest of the day, and then abruptly left when she retired for the night. The next morning, there were dozens of long canvas bags draped over her white dresser. As she expected, each was holding a beautiful, fine gown. They were in varying degrees of elegance, some styled very plainly, others resembled what she pictured as a ball gown. She had anticipated dark colors, but he had given her an array of shades to choose from, all pleasing to the eye. The one thing she did notice was that they were all in a blank pattern, completely devoid of any embroidery or design.

_Bribery…_

She chose a plain one in deep violet to wear, one with belled sleeves and a loose skirt. She looked for her favorite necklace to wear with it, her blackened silver cross, but it was nowhere to be found. Erik was pacing downstairs in the gold room, his hands behind his back, his expression rather fierce. She hoped he wasn't waiting for her.

"You came into my room," she said from the doorway, as a morning greeting.

He stopped and turned to face her. He was wearing a blood red shirt under his black suit and it gave him a completely different coloring.

"Yes?" he said expectantly.

"You came into my room," she repeated.

He still looked at her.

"And?" he said. A pause. "Does that upset you?"

She opened her mouth, and then reflected for a moment. "No. No, it doesn't."

She thought he gave her a dark smile, but it was difficult to tell because he started pacing again.

Going over to the red couch, she sat and watched him. Back and forth. Back and forth.

"Why are you staring at me?" he demanded.

"There's nothing else to stare at," she answered calmly. His eyes narrowed at her for a moment before he resumed his restless pacing.

She liked the red, she finally decided. It made him softer around the edges and threw his mask into more of a pristine accessory. It was still very different, however… something that would take some getting used to.

"Thank you for the dresses," she said. "Where did you buy them?"

"Buy them?" he repeated vaguely. "Oh, around. Lots and lots of different places."

"You bought all those dresses from around town?"

His eyes gazed into hers. "Of course I did not _buy_ them, you wonderful girl. Why would I waste money on something as trivial as that?"

She took a deep breath and kept her reasonable voice smooth, with the air of trying to settle something. "So you stole them?"

He shrugged, no repentance emanating from him. "You needed them, and I gave them to you. It all works out, does it not? Quit fidgeting with your fingers like that, I want to see your arms out in front. There. I like the curves in your sleeves. It accentuates you nicely."

He stopped completely and studied her for a minute, like she was a painting that he wanted to hang on the wall. There was no way to ask him to stop—after all, she had been doing the exact same thing to him mere seconds ago.

"Do you like my body?" she asked abruptly.

He stopped pacing; he stared at her. She hated the damn mask. It was hiding him.

"Why are you asking me this?" he asked.

"Why are you not answering me?"

He tilted his head to look at her. "Why, yes," he said finally. "I do."

Her heart was beating fast under her chest. "But you never touch me."

"I touch you all the time!" he said at once, offended. "I touch your hair, I touch your waist… I like holding you around your waist, to pull you to me. You fit so nicely. We were made for one another."

"But you bring me dresses."

"Yes."

"Don't you want to touch me without a dress on?"

She kept her eyes down, not longer looking at him, no way of knowing what he was staring at now.

He began pacing again.

"Christine," he said. And then he said nothing more.

After a while, it became apparent he was not going to ask her to sing today, and she became bored with his relentless energy, stressed by the lack of answer to her question, and she left to go find something interesting to do.

He came into the dining room only minutes later, where Christine was arranging all of the tea cups by color. He took both of her hands and held her face while he kissed her.

"I come into your room a lot," he admitted, watching her face very closely.

She brushed it off. "I do not mind."

"Am I allowed to come in whenever?"

"Maybe not sometimes," she said. In her head, she tried to decide if she liked that he watched over while she slept, like an angel, or if it was something more sinister. "I will tell you if I don't want you in my room," she decided quietly, and he seemed to accept her answer.

She felt as though his asking if he could come into her room was a really a different question.

She pictured him coming into her room, like a great black creature of the Night, thin and narrow, but strong and dark. He would press her into the bed… Would he be reserved at first…? But it wouldn't last… She would make sure to see him unguarded; she would make him moan…

"No coming into _my_ room," he whispered to her, and kissed her once more against her neck as she made to look around at him. He was retreating now, and she understood that this way his way of wanting to be alone.

"Besides," she heard him say softly at the kitchen door swung shut. "If you _really_ never wanted me going into your room… You would have bolted your door."

.


	10. Act X

**A/N: You all made me so happy from your reviews, that I decided to post this much sooner than I had expected...**

**.**

Christine waited for the music, but it never came.

Instead, she was greeting mostly with cold silence, that seeped through the heavy walls and closed in on her when she was making no movement herself. If she was lucky, she would hear strange sounds coming from the music room, tiny clinking or crumpling from its depths.

She had been told not to disturb him, and she had no desire to intentionally disobey him. He hadn't told her she was only to remain inside, and she idly wondered what would happen if she went on up to her father's grave. She found she didn't feel strongly enough about it… It didn't seem that important to her… so she disregarded it.

Instead, she went around upstairs, taking time to enjoy each and every room. In the art studio, she gazed at each and every portrait and drawing, trying to decide her favorite. There was one of a regal looking woman that must have been drawn a long time ago—but even looking at it made Christine jealous to think of him staring at her, extensively studying her and drawing her curves. But most of them were not of people, only abstract shapes and swirls in varying greys. A few were of buildings or other areas of design that were extraordinary, but otherwise rather plain. Her favorites, she decided, were the ones of swirled fabric. It was like the curtains of the stage or the material of a fine dress in faded colors and bold marks. She wanted Erik to draw one for her, so she could hang it in her room.

She played the small piano in one of the rooms, sang all her favorite songs, but eventually she grew bored and thought it might be time for bed, but in her white room, she could not sleep. Erik seemed very far away, and the whole world seemed empty alone; so taking a soft pillow and the thick, white blanket with her, she went down to the cavern room and made herself comfortable on the black couch. The other room was silent as she hummed to herself and drifted off to sleep.

She was jolted awake what seemed like seconds later by something loud, but all was quiet as she sat upright. Standing, she crept to the door of the music room and pressed her ear to the door to hear an odd crackling noise and a funny _fwoosh!_

There was still sounded of his movement and she pictured him inside, surrounded to the darkness he equally loved and abhorred. She wondered what he was doing…?

The door creaked as she stupidly pressed her ear against the door again, and she sprang back, wringing her hands. Sure enough, it pushed open and Erik gazed at her curiously.

"Christine?" he said, as if checking to make sure it was not some other unwanted visitor. "Come, are you awake?"

She recoiled from him, afraid he was going to yell at her, be in one of his towering tempers at her interruption, but he only sighed and extended his hand in an expression of halt. Then he closed the door.

Christine stood there foolishly as the sounded of clicking and scuffling came to her ears, and then the door opened again, and he said, "Come in."

She thought about how this was the second time he had asked her if she was awake, but she was hesitant to question him about it if she had already raised his ire. Although he was unsmiling, he did not look angry, so she meekly stepped under his arm. The room had been changed a little; all of the furniture had been pushed to one side, and the wrought-iron table was in the middle with the singed fabric on the side.

"Sit," he ordered, clearing scores off the loveseat, and she sat. "Be comfortable," he added, as if this had been a planned visit between guest and host. He himself took the piano bench and leaned forward, his elbows on his legs, and looked at her as if eager for a paragon of conversation.

More to take his eyes off her than anything else, Christine pointed towards the strangely placed table in the center of the tiny room. "What is that for?"

His eyes did not flicker away from her. "I was never, ever a composer. I wanted to be. But it just never worked. Would you like to know a secret, Christine?" When she nodded seriously, he continued. "I hate writing my own melodies. But give me someone else's and I can improve it beyond all recognition. Oh yes, virtually anything by Bach or Glinka I can change, reform into something _even better_. I love to re-design and arrange. But I must have a melody first. I must build off something else." He stared at the wall, and Christine wasn't even sure he was talking to her anymore. "But I wanted to write something for you… I have never wanted to write something so badly. You would understand how much I loved you, if only I could write something for you._Don Juan Triumphant_ was my only great work to join the likes of other men's masterpieces, and it shall remain the only one."

She felt a gut-wrenching moment of sorrow. "They burned it," she whispered.

"It needed to burn."

The hanging clock ticked like a metronome over the piano. There were so many clocks here, always switching locations, sometimes ticking, sometimes not; some going three times as fast as normal, others going so slow you could almost believe that they didn't move. Her favorite thing about them was that they were all set at completely different times.

"I loved singing with you too much," Erik admitted out of nowhere. His gaze finally broke as he straightened up. "You became the only thing I wanted to build off of. You scarred me."

She smiled at him, seeing through the thinly-veiled compliment, and took his hand. He allowed it only reluctantly, so the weight felt heavy in hers.

"I understand," she told him truthfully.

His face stayed blank, almost unkind. "You will _never_ understand. And I wouldn't have it any other way."

.

The lake under the Opera House was very dirty water indeed. It had an odd murky tinge to it at all time, and if you got too close, it smelled of mold and rust.

Erik had built a little wooden drain that took in water and then pushed it out through a windmill-like object that he said filtered the water. It was here Christine washed her outfits, because although Erik's home had running water, there was no suitable place for this deed.

And no matter how intimate she could imagine—or ever hope—to be with Erik, she would never be comfortable with him respectfully washing her undergarments, so this was generally an excursion she made on her own.

It was one of those quiet days, where no tapping or dripping evaded the stone corridors. Christine had several garments draped over her arm as she walked, not caring if they dragged on the dirt floor. She sang a bit of Caldara's dramatic work as she paced herself.

For all the stealth she had learned under Erik's wing, all the caution she had automatically exercised, nothing at all clicked in her mind when she saw the soldier.

He couldn't have been any older than herself. His hair was a light brown and his eyes were abnormally wide, which matched his face—which was as white as a sheet. She darted down so quickly there was no possible way he could have seen her, but her heart still thudded in panic as he called "Giacoma!" over his shoulder.

"I don't want to hear anymore about your useless facts! I don't _care_ when this place was built, or what type of stone is used down here—"

"No, Giacoma, did you hear that?"

The brown-haired youth looked over at his companion who Christine could not see. The two men stared fruitlessly while the fumbling ghost dropped her dresses in order to blend in more with the stone wall.

"Like the stories?" said the skeptical voice.

"Only it sounded real," said the visible one, peering around at nothing. He took a step closer, and Christine retreated against her wall. The appearance of two human beings so close was deeply unsettling. She almost felt as though she didn't belong with them anymore, as if they were a different species.

"Something exciting, at least," said the hidden voice sardonically. "Why don't you go and watch the cellar exit like we're supposed to be doing, and I will stay and listen for your voices… because I think I would rather be the one to actually catch someone down here."

"Not fair," mumbled the young man.

"Well, you wouldn't want to face him, would you? I mean, how many bodies have we found in the last two years alone?"

Something about how he said those words made Christine's stomach flutter unexpectedly.

"Take care," the other muttered, and she watched as the pleasant-faced boy turned his back and the once-invisible voice came into view.

Giacoma! Why hadn't she recognized the name? He was one of the door greeters night after night, whom she had often seen but never spoken to. Even though he looked rather cross at the moment, she knew him to be illumination and charismatic to all Opera patrons. And his daughter, Addie, had just entered her fifth years and could often be seen toddling after her father.

It was odd remembering all this about her past life… It was like remembering a dream from a long time ago.

This jolt of familiarity caused more worry than pleasure, however; if he saw her, he was sure to recognize her at once. How long had guards been pacing the area? Were they looking for something in particular? Did Erik know about this?

Giacoma began meandering around the area, drawing Christine tighter into the corner. She could not get past him to get to her lake, and she could not leave her shadows to take the route home. Until he was to go away, she was trapped.

For the first time, she desperately wished for Erik.

Giacoma came closer, strolling and looking at nothing, but she continued sliding along the wall until she was a good twenty feet away from him.

The piles of clothes she had dropped caught her attention the same time it did his.

He stooped over, frowning as he lifted one of the underskirts. "Ladies clothes?" he asked to no one.

She was so furious with herself for dropping them and swore silently against her wall.

Giacoma rifled through them, looking more and more suspicious as he came across all the clothing. He lifted up a random material and then, holding it out like evidence, began following the other soldier to the back.

She knew in that instant she couldn't allow him to get away.

Quite calmly, she stepped out of her dark security and followed him noiselessly until he turned the corner.

"Giacoma?"

It surprised her how young and fluttery her voice sounded in the echoed hallway. It would have made anyone turn.

His expression was disbelieving. His mouth made an _o._

"Please don't tell," she requested in a sweet voice. "Don't tell anyone. It will make him very, very angry."

He tilted his head back, his face completely blank with confusion.

"Are you the girl… the one who we found—?"

She couldn't think of what to do. If she let him go, of course he could tell somebody! But what was she supposed to do, keep him trapped here?

_Get rid of him…_

She was once again frozen with indecision… the whole thing felt terribly surreal. Never had she imagined that someone would be down here.

"Erik?" she called behind her, the sound carrying and reverberating through the passage. This was at a point where she needed help, and if Erik was anywhere outside the house, he would hear.

Giacoma was slowly coming out of his stupor and his eyes revealed the urge to run for it.

A sudden and completely unexplainable flash of anger shot through her. This was _her_ territory—hers and Erik's—and others had no right prowling around!

"Stay," she crooned, releasing her wall and coming towards him.

Giacoma did not stay as the pearly figure came for him. He turned and bolted, his feet thickly padding on the hard floor.

Erik appeared instead, looking insatiably curious.

Christine's blood was running so fast, it was all she could do to thrust her hand in the direction he had gone running like a maniac, saying wildly, "He saw me, Erik! He saw me and he's getting away!"

Erik took his hands and cupped her face tenderly. Why was he always so intoxicatingly gentle when she was so frazzled? "Don't be so distressed, my love. This is easily dealt with."

"But—he's getting away, Erik, stop him!"

"No one gets away from me. Have a little faith."

And he left her, the expression on his face clearly telling her to _stay put._

Christine knew better, yet as soon as he was out of sight, she followed. She couldn't help it. She was drawn to him like some sort of solar alignment. And suddenly, she was very sure of what Erik was going to do, and she was half horrified, half fascinated.

Erik had caught up with Giacoma only a few yards from the gate by the lake. The dark man stuttered to a stop and never saw the figure behind him.

It wasn't quite as beautiful or as seductive as she had been imagining. It was rather crude. There was a sharp snap and a crackling sound. As he turned, Giacoma's face looked purple in the half-light, and Christine remembered how he used to look, greeting people at the door. She supposed he wouldn't be doing that anymore.

Erik picked up the lifeless body like an overgrown toddler and came towards her. His half-face showed slight displeasure at seeing her, but then walked past her expressionlessly.

Christine sank down to the floor to wait for him. She had ordered Erik after him. She had committed her first murder, and she hadn't even touched him!

She had to know—did she just kill a man or not?

It was one thing for Erik to kill with a purpose, but it was another to see him kill because she had asked him to. He hadn't even hesitated.

A bit of blood shinned scarlet on the grand. It was smeared on one side, making it a pretty picture as it made a tiny river towards her. It was rather beautiful.

This was how Erik found her.

"Christine, why are you on the ground again? It is very dirty down there."

She couldn't take her eyes off the blood. It might disappear if she looked away.

"Look at me, dear… I cannot speak to you if you do not look at me."

His voice had shifted and changed into a velvety, seductive tool. It rivaled with the beauty of the blood, and her gaze met his.

He did not _look_ any different. It was not like he had suddenly changed into a bad man.

"That's much better," Erik murmured, taking one strand of her hair and tucking it behind her ear.

"Was that my fault?" she asked.

"Christine. You are so sweet looking! What in the entire world is your fault?"

"He had a little daughter, and he wasn't bothering anyone."

"Who?"

"He had a pretty little daughter and he never bothered me. You're not supposed to kill people I like."

"You liked him, Christine?" His voice held a bit of malice in it now. "No," he said. "You like me."

"It's my fault, it's always my fault. I'm so stupid, how could I have let him see me?"

"He bothered me," Erik replied evenly. "And he bothered you too, oh Christine, don't you see? You _wanted_ him dead, you _wanted _me to kill him. You wanted it, and now that I did, you are afraid of what you wanted. It's alright to want bad things, Christine, you're not a bad person! You're just like me, Christine, only you can be good. You don't have to be bad, because I can be bad for you! Let me be the other part of you… Oh God, please let me be that…"

"I am not like you!" she said loudly.

"Yes, you are!"

He pulled her up and kissed her, clutching her arms and pining her tightly down so she couldn't have moved if she had wanted to. She wanted to badly to be in awe of him at that moment, to be held back by total fear and excitement—but it was clouded by her own worries, her own confusion. And when she finally eased up enough to rub her lips back against his, he sprang back.

"You should go home now," he noted. "And stop acting like you are about to go into shock. This is nothing you haven't seen before. Don't act as if it was surprising. What did you expect me to do with him?"

She remembered the youthful boy, the other solider walking around with Giacoma. She knew that she could stay silent—but she always knew she was deciding his fate if she told Erik.

Hating herself, and yet unable to resist, she muttered, "There's another one."

There was her second murder.

He nodded, stroking her face.

"I thought I made you different," she said in a hushed tone. "You said I could make you happy, and you would be different for me."

Erik looked highly offended. "Darling, I _am_ different for you. But you can never change a man, no? Why must you insist on changing me? Can you not accept me for who I am? Don't you love me?"

He was using that voice on her again, which wasn't fair. She looked blankly in the other direction—as if that were to help. "I love you," she said finally. "And look at all the changes I've made for you!"

"Don't you shut me out," he demanded, pulling her head over to him again. He was so close to her, she could count every stitch on his vest, every line in the fabric. "It's unbecoming. Now, you listen: I did not change you. I only awakened what was there all along. I sensed a soul within you that I could relate to, but you had buried it from grief and the human desire to fit in. But once I released you from these bonds, I had to repair and maintain you. And now you are truly _mine_. And look at you now, Christine. I couldn't be happier."

Hesitatingly, she crawled to her feet and began to walk. He grabbed hold of the hem of her skirt, but then let it slide through his fingers as she began to walk home without a glance back at him.

"Don't shut me out," he called, suddenly angry. "I don't like being shut out!"

.


	11. Act XI

What would Papa think?

He would be horrified at her choices. He had died hoping she would sing professionally for the world, certainly not that she would be living underground with a sadistic and deformed man, calmly allowing him to commit whatever crimes it took to keep him to herself.

Oh, but they were _her_ choices, were they not? And Erik loved her. He loved her so very much.

Christine assumed that Erik would expect her to stay in her room all night, but she presented herself in the music room later, poised and ready for a lesson.

He paused at the door, looking expectant.

"Can we sing?" she reminded him politely.

He vanished for a few seconds and then reappeared, holding his violin and bow tucked under his arm. "No need to be in there. Come on out here, the sound will be lovely."

She stood away from the couch while he sat at the edge of the chair and played a few art songs. She sang freely, trying to ignore him, trying to enjoy the fluidity of her voice. Erik did not stop her once, although he kept up a string of murmured instruction, as though he could not help himself… "Don't draw you lip in on your _oh's_… _Splende_, not _splenda_… There's no breath in that sentence, keep it legato…"

She came to a stop at one point to sit on the couch while he continued playing and singing quietly to himself.

"_Splende una face che l'alma accende_…"

"Erik, let's go up together to visit my father's grave," she said.

"_Sento nel core certo dolore_… What is it with you and your obsession with a tombstone?" he asked quietly. "Your father is dead, Christine. Gazing at a piece of stone does nothing. It will not bring him back, it will not make loss any easier."

"It is out of respect, Erik. Surely you can understand that."

"_Crudi e sordid a miei sospir, occhi alteri, ciechi e fiery_," he crooned at her, his grey eyes fixed almost upon her in a temper. "Sing the words with me."

"I don't know that song!"

"Don't be angry with me."

He set his violin down precariously on the armrest and went to sit by her. His hands were hard against her back as he coaxed her to lean against him.

"It's not that I don't trust you," he said in her ear, his lips brushing her curls. "It's _them_. Surely you can understand that…?"

Her heart sank. If he was going to be reasonable, then she could not argue with him. She was intentionally being difficult when Erik was only protecting her.

"You feel nice against me," he said in a strange voice, both of his gloved hands caressing her shoulders. She was indeed against his leg and leaning onto his chest with apparent relaxation, though she had hardly noticed doing it. She looked quickly up into his face, and she could just begin to see the ruined flesh beneath the mask.

He seemed to hesitate, and then asked, "Do you mind?"

"No," she said immediately, afraid he would pull away. He smelled enticing and it was almost too tempting to lean further into him. She curled up a little more, her fingers tentatively finding his stomach and wrapping around him cautiously. "I like it when you hold onto me." She leaned her head right below his head. She could have fallen asleep, it was so wonderful.

But he released her carefully and waved her away. "Go and relax for a little while, then off to bed please."

She reluctantly rose and went to the staircase. When she looked behind her, his head was in his hands.

.

Christine had nightmares that night.

She was surrounded by white, but her white dress was stained with maroon blood. When she twirled around, the blond was flung off and blotched onto the walls and carpet. Then Death himself came towards her, and she waved at him, knowing that if only he trusted her, he would not take her. And he seized her hands and swirled his tattered cloak and spun faster and faster until there was a white mask on Death's face, smeared with her blood.

When her eyes opened, she was still surrounded by white and she saw the deep red spots everywhere. Her heart pounded and she took great breaths in to calm herself as the room began to brighten.

She was mad at Erik because he wasn't there to soothe her, but she just turned up the lights and sang to herself in a low warble until the spots were gone from her eyes and she curled up in the white chair with her white blanket and shut her eyes against the white, everywhere white.

In the morning, Erik was not exactly radiating happiness towards her either. Two short tempers made for even shorter conversations.

"Erik, I can't find my cross necklace."

"So naturally, you assume that I have taken it."

"No, I simply thought you might have seen in. Don't be fresh."

He glared at her. "Shut up," he snapped. "I only like you when you sing."

"Liar," she said coldly. "Stop looking at me like that, or I'll go right back up to my room!"

"Like a child, like a punished child," he said in a mimicking voice, leaning on the back two legs of his chair like he had not a care in the world. "_Your_ room! This house is mine and everything in it belongs to me. _Including_ you!"

"I am not an object."

"Yes you are. You are _my_ object. And you like it!"

Christine wrinkled her nose at him.

"You know why you get so angry and defensive when I say things like that?" he said furiously. "It is not because I am saying cruel things, or because you disagree with my words. It is because you know I am right!"

"And what happens if I leave? What happens if I prove you wrong for once and just left!"

He stopped leaning back on his chair, and all four legs clunked to the floor. "Maybe you should."

Sniffing, dying to know what he would do, she pushed herself out of her chair and made for the gold room. He didn't follow, and she stopped in the doorway. The left side of his face was blotching in anger.

"As if you would ever leave me," he said bitterly. "As if you had any place to go!"

And with that, he too rose angrily and slammed himself inside his bedroom door.

.

He came up to her room a little later, when she was laying lazily on the edge of her bed with one of his books. There was a heavy knock on the door, and she scowled. So he knocked now?

"I'm not dressed," she called.

To her astonishment, the door opened anyway and Erik came in. "Don't lie to me," he said simply, and sat on the other edge of the bed.

She turned, drawing her legs up and staring at his back. He looked rather weary from the side, but his face was still molded into the expression of coldness. He didn't _look_ any different to her when he was angry: the contours of his body, the pace of his movement, the quick tense smiles he sometimes betrayed were all burned into her memory. It was those natural things that made Christine see him the way he always would be. He couldn't pretend around her. Not anymore.

She suddenly felt very small and insignificant. He had chosen _her_ to reign as his queen, but it was written in _his_ blood, and came at a cost.

Without thinking about it, she crawled over to him, pressing her lips gently to the nape of his neck, above his black clothes and below his dark brown hair. "You look tired, darling," she whispered, ignoring the way he hunched over, as if trying to avoid her. "Would you like me to sing for you?"

"How kind," he murmured. "I wish you knew a little bit of what it's like when I am around you. How I can't breathe when you are too far. I would hold you and touch you forever if I could. I wish—" His voice became unsure. "—I wish you could let me. I wish you would let me touch you everywhere. I want to make sure you belong to me in e_very_ way. I want to be so exquisite so that you are attached to me forever."

She kissed the back of his neck again, and said, "I _am_ attached to you forever."

"No, I changed my mind. I don't want you to know how I feel. Because I still think it would frighten you away. It would disgust you. You would laugh."

"I would not," she murmured into the back of his coat. "I do love you. I do!"

"I know it," he said sadly. "Or I would not keep you down here so. I feel it in your words, in your touch. I never thought I would see sincerity, but I see it in you. And that is why I _have_ to keep you down here."

Her heart stirred uncomfortably. "What do you mean?"

"I am all you have," he stated solemnly. "If there were someone else, you would run off." He looked upward, almost beseechingly. "You would not love me in that world up there."

The seconds ticked by, and Christine pictured them like little figurines dancing in the air in a line, counting each wasted moment. She wanted to be honest with him, so she tried to think. It was hard to remember the other world. It was hard to remember that there were other people. It was hard to remember Raoul.

Poor Raoul. There had really only been one way to dispose of him without it hurting, and that had been a complete and total cut-off. She had closed down her heart to everything but Erik. But if she allowed it to open again, then what would happen?

What was she supposed to tell herself? She had loved Raoul so much. She had fallen so hard for him that everything he had said sounded perfectly lovely in her ears. But how long had that lasted, before Erik once again regained his future queen, not only denying their visitation, but making her w_ant_ to forget Raoul? How had he twisted her heart so?

The figurines were still dancing. Waiting.

"I would still want you," she said. "I belong to you now. You're part of me now. I am part of this world. I know of no other."

"I do," he said in a harsh whisper. "I see that world every day and dream about what it's like."

"It's much more interesting down here, Erik, I assure you."

"Oh, I know," he said, catching her lips gently and forcing his lips to part hers with strange, but unyielding force. Her head drew back a little and she moved her tongue against him for the first time and felt her whole body seize up from that want of doing it again.

It startled her to the point where she couldn't move—and then she realized she r_eally_ couldn't move. Without her noticing, he had practically pinned her down against him, both of his arms restraining her in a languid manner. She glared at him a little. The bastard.

"Having trouble," he breathed, watching her struggle and running his lips and nose all against her face.

"That hurts. Let me go."

"No it doesn't," he said, tasting her lips again. He made sure she was nearly flat on the bed before he climbed up and hovered over her. She stopped moving and watched him warily. He stared back unashamedly. "Tell me what you feel like, right now."

She glared at him as he carefully pinned her hands above her head, and tried to ignore the frantic pounding of her heart. "It feels like someone is on top of me."

"Someone?"

"You. Only you."

He took his hands and traced them along the edges of her body. She wriggled a little so that he actually touched her, but he stopped and gave her a stern look. She wanted him to touch her, but he always stopped short. Was there something wrong with her?

"I thought you belonged to me," he said, withdrawing.

She glared into his too-knowing eyes; Erik was no fool, and he knew what he was doing to her, and he enjoyed baiting her. "Don't act innocent—it doesn't suit you at all."

He laughed. "I like you."

She surged onto him, attacking him almost in frenzy with her lips. She really was sick of his control! She wanted him to snap, to push her harder onto the bed, to lift up her dress with his hands! She wanted to see his perfect façade come undone, she wanted _him_ to come undone in her arms, because she could do that and no one else could!

His demeanor was almost frightening. He simply kissed her back easily, his hand traveling up her again, this time resting below her breasts. He kept his hands there pulling her closer and pinned her down again so she could not move. The feeling of being helpless was unnerving when he was touching her so intimately. "Let me go," she said, struggling against him. He came to life when she moved, and kissed her passionately.

"No," he sang.

"Let me up, Erik, or I won't kiss you anymore!"

His eyes were a mixture of defiance and longing; his voice was of trepidation and excitement. It seemed he enjoyed her temper more so than her cooperation. "I _dare_ you to keep that promise," he said in a dark voice.

Christine gave up and let him explore her skin in this odd position, but as soon as he noticed her surrender, the game seemed to lose his appeal and he became the gentleman again. He came to cradle her in his arms, her head nestled against his chest.

"You should always struggle if it makes you uneasy, Christine," he said slyly, but his hands were gentle upon her.

"You're ruining it. Be quiet and enjoy the moment."

He grew silent, but only for a minute. It seemed that his hand was truly unable to stay still in such proximity to her, and this time it made lazy journeys up and down her arm. She pretended that she was not worrying in her head. She pretended to forget all the insecurities she had about Erik perhaps not wanting her.

"You know," he said conversationally after a moment. "I am a virgin, too."

The space she was in grew instantly hot and confining as hear flooded her face and made her light-headed. She could not believe he would say such a thing to her like that, and she could not meet his gaze!

"Come, does that actually surprise you?" he coaxed, inserting his fingers between hers and caressing them lovingly. His hands were warm and trembling slightly, although she thought it might have been more from adrenaline rather than actual nervousness. "But… be careful how you answer that! If you say yes, you are lying—if you say no, you wound my pride somehow."

Christine suddenly wished for fresh air, but the feeling passed. "What am I _supposed_ to say to that?" she asked.

"You are so nervous, Christine. It is truly fantastic."

"You don't want me," she shot back. "You take my feelings and use them. You don't want me to feel anything."

"I could make you feel wonderful," he murmured, and suddenly he was pushing her down again, on top of her. She spluttered, her nerves shot by the way his mood kept changing on her, but she could not pretend that she disliked this position of submissiveness on her part.

"What could I do you?" she questioned suggestively.

He shivered, and she lit up with excitement at her control, at that single involuntary action she had caused. "I'm not willing to share anything with anybody. I'm not willing to share you with anybody. But we are to be married! You will be my wife, and then you _have_ to share everything with me."

"And what will you share with me?"

"Well, there's the catch, see," he said dispassionately.

She wished he would smile, just once, like he had in the auditorium as she chased him. Not the spontaneous laughter he sometimes gave, which was not always genuine, but a real smile for her. Just to show that she was making him a little happy.

"I don't understand."

Erik turned to look at her, his eyes sad and angry at the same time.

"I could seduce you with my voice," he said in a velvety tone, as powerful and as angelic as an angel's beckon. It stirred inside her stomach, made her want to throw herself at him again, and she would do whatever that voice asked. He was watching her as if he knew exactly how she was feeling. "Or even with my touch." He reached across and touched her midsection with two perfect fingers—the action surprised her so much that she sucked in air and ignored the longing sensations that started where he touched and consumed her chest. "I could, because it's all an illusion, and you welcome the illusion. You _crave_ the illusion. I am a master of illusion. I manipulate my voice to make you see me. I use my hands to make you want me. But it's all fake in the end—no one will ever know the real me."

Christine rose on her knees. "You won't let me."

"Of course not. Why would I want to remind you of the monster I am? The monster I choose to be?" Anger was hidden behind his words now. "I could stop hurting people, but I don't because I like hurting them. I could do a lot of good things, but I don't because I want to do the bad things."

The room was too white. The only thing she could concentrate on was Erik, all black against all white.

"You love me," she reminded him, as if this cleared him from all wrong.

"I would kill for you," he agreed.

"Have you ever wanted to kill me?" she whispered, morbidly curious.

"Ah," he said. "I would die if you were to die by anyone's hand, including my own. How many lovers onstage have killed themselves for their love? I would destroy the world, me along with it, if I were ever to harm you. Oh Christine.. I would live long enough to see them all burn… all of them suffer for what happened to you…"

Never had she seen his eyes so far away. She touched his shoulder and it barely seemed to register with him.

"Erik, you are not an illusion," she said clearly. "I didn't fall in love with someone fake."

His eyes were glazed. "So it is fine for me to be bad however I want, as long as I love only you?"

Nothing came to her lips. What was she supposed to say?

_Yes…?_

How was she supposed to scold him and let him know in one breath that she wasn't perfect either? Were she perfect, she wouldn't have wanted him and all of his dark splendor in the first place.

One bad person could not console another.

"Then let me see you," she challenged. "Let me see you without the illusions. Please Erik, open up to me. Please don't hold back. See what happens." She hated to beg.

"I like the idea of marriage," he said. "Another illusion that we would be happy."

He was frightening her with his words of truth. "Stop speaking of it now. Sing me to sleep like you used to."

Nothing changed with him, but everything felt different under her touch.

"I knew we would be together some day," he said softly. "Why am I so conflicted?"

"Erik," she said in nervousness. "Stop thinking about it. Don't you still love me? Don't you still want me?" No matter what he was trying to express, all she could hear was that maybe he didn't love her like he used to. She needed the love more than she could depend upon. If he didn't love her like that, she would die.

He stood uneasily, and she relinquished her hold on him. "Poor dear," he sighed. "I wonder about you…"

She looked at him desperately. "I thought I was everything to you! I thought this was what you wanted! This is what I want!"

The expression he gave her made her feel young and stupid; a pointless distraction for a powerful man who knew what he was doing with himself.

"We can talk some other time," he said consolingly.

There was no use in further discussion. He had died as quickly as he had come to life under her fingertips. Now he just seemed tired, like he wanted to get away from her. She watched him retreat thoughtlessly to the door. A sudden urgency struck her.

"Erik," she called. "I've never been married before!"

He looked as though he wanted to go back to her, but somehow held himself back. "Don't you worry about anything," he promised. "It will be a union like the world has never seen, and nothing to compare it to. We will make it just our own. Just ours, Christine."

Her fingers curled round the ends of her blanket. "I…"

"But be warned," he said, and suddenly his smile was almost wicked. "I have been patient for very, very long... very long... and I do not like when my patience is tested..."

Erik departed, leaving the room once again an innocent white.

.


	12. Act XII

**A/N: I was in the hospital, so I apologize for the delay.**

**And to friscofilly: I actually think this Christine is very clever and scheming, so I would love to hear more about why you think she is stupid. And also, this is unfortunately NOT based on the book, which I think I make pretty clear... so you obviously did not read the first chapter. If you did so, I'm sure you would understand the story and characters better.**

**Anyone else noticed you can no longer add those dashes to seperate scenes? It's completely destroyed all my stories and made them look like run-ons.**

**.**

"Go off and play," he told her one day. "I'll be back in an hour. I want you out as well."

"Can't I come with you?"

"No," he answered. "Just an hour."

He walked her upstairs and set her loose in the entrance hall after an intrusive kiss and abrupt dismissal. He walked right out the front doors, but when the glass swung shut, he was no longer there.

Although she had been getting ready for bed at home, it was late morning here. The lobbies and quarters were all but deserted, yet the auditorium was filled with the members of a rehearsal. Christine practiced following people around, but she thought it was boring. Erik could scare people, which was what made it fun for him, but she wasn't sure how to startle someone without making it obvious she was right there. A little upset with him from the way he had so easily dismissed her, she had nothing to do but fume around in the age-old auditorium.

Listening was tiresome, as they were doing blocking rather than any music, so she fooled around in the sets and looked at all the costumes, but after being almost run over by a changing baritone, she decided to clear the area.

It did not take her long to realize that an hour had passed and Erik had still not returned. It was a direct violation of his promise, and it excused her from harm.

Her dress was a creamy blue, so she snatched black walking boots and a black, gauzy shawl from the costume wing and wrapped it around her head like a widow to go out the side door. She must have looked a bit peculiar, but the stares were minimal as she followed the dull brick all the way to the edge of the street. The ground was muddy and clumped on the bottom of her stolen boots.

To anyone else, the deserted ruins of an ancient building just off Drimvere had been deserted for decades. She hoisted herself up on the brick and climbed through one of the crumbling windows.

Inside was just as magical as their home, only in a different way. Everything was colored very pale, like the wood of furniture and the cloth of faded pillows. Nothing matched whatsoever.

"Darling?" she called hesitatingly.

She paused in anticipation, and there were footsteps up ahead.

"Darling?" Erik's voice mimicked from somewhere behind her.

"Where are you?"

"I told you to stay," his voice said pleasantly.

"You told me you would only be gone an hour," she flounced back. Oh no, he could not win with his games anymore.

Even in the pale shadows of this haunted place, she felt alone. Her arms came out and wrapped around her, and she wished Erik would appear. He came from the opposite side she had been predicting. His jacket was off and his black shirt was captivating.

She goggled a little. He had to warn her when he was making any alteration to his appearance, or else it simply threw her. "You look nice," she breathed.

He gave an impatient smirk. "Only when you can't see my face. And I can't see yours. Take off that silly thing, I want to see you."

She hastily slid her cover off her face, and he reached out and pulled away the black material around her shoulders. The gesture of his arm and shoulder as it pulled off this semblance of article of clothing affected her deeply. She touched his shoulder and she could feel his skin through the fabric, and he turned away and grabbed something dark—his jacket, and slung it on.

"I didn't want to be recognized," she said in an injured voice.

"Very creative," he approved.

They ended up walking together in the cover of trees rather than stolen scarves. They passed a stall filled with flowers and a young man waiting anxiously as the clerk wrapped a bundle of garlands.

Erik saw her looking and grew dangerously close. He swiped the wrapped florals as the other two men looked the other way.

"Erik, that man paid for that wrapping!" she scolded, but she took it anyway. He looked unconcerned.

"So?"

"So… what if he only had enough money for this, and it was his wife's anniversary, and now she is at home crying because they have no money, and he is heartbroken because now he cannot even get her flowers?"

He gave her a stern look. "If that is all the money he has for his wife, he should not be spending it on flowers, foolish girl."

She held them away from her body but sniffed them delicately. "How can I say thank you for stolen flowers?"

Erik rolled his eyes. It made her laugh.

When they completely passed the booth, he suddenly grinned at her—how terrifying it was, to see him smile like that.

"What is it?" she asked suspiciously.

His expression turned off like a facet, as if she had caught him at a moment of weakness. "You stole the shawl."

Without any warning, he stopped and swooped down, lifting up her dress to her knee. "And the shoes, it I'm not mistaken," he added, a bit of his merry leer coming back.

"Stop—put it down!" she flapped, snatching her dress from him and pressing it against her legs, blushing for numerous reasons. He returned to standing position, looking completely nonchalant, as if he had not just lifted up most of her clothing."Firstly—do not ever do that again! Second—I did _not_steal them. I borrowed them and I plan to give them back. You are not planning on giving the flowers back, are you?"

His face changed; he brightened considerably. "So if you give them back, it's not stealing?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, but didn't say anything.

He took her arm, kissed her fingers, and hummed on the way home.

There was a bit of a difficult situation under the Opera. There were dozens of people at every turn, whispering seriously to each other.

"They think they're so clever, but they do not even guard the entrance," Erik scoffed. Perhaps her face was alarmed, because he patted her arm and said, "They'll give up soon enough, dear, don't you worry. Now follow me closely."

She had barely moved more than two steps before he said, "And take off those shoes if you insist on stepping like an elephant. And drop the shawl, there's no use for it."

She quickly removed the shows and scarf and held them tightly in her arms, but he wrestled them from her, dropping them on the floor.

"They'll see it…" she said in hushed tones.

Erik smiled insanely. "Another mystery to keep them up at night."

Together they plowed through the darker paths, occasionally pausing when seeing a shadow up ahead.

"We should just let them see us," he sighed pensively.

Christine instantly wrapped her arms around him, as if to physically hold him back, and pressed her face into him. "No, we shouldn't! That's just more trouble for us if they keep being down here."

He turned around in an odd, flow-like movement, catching his hand around her waist and pulling her close to him, jerking her against him. "You have to warn me before you touch me like that," he murmured lustily against her ear, before abruptly releasing her and vanishing into the darkness.

For a moment, she had thought he was going to push her down to the ground, and it made her heart pound as she fingered where his hands had roughly touched.

"Same to you!" she said to the floor.

.

Later, Erik came into one of the library rooms upstairs where Christine was trying to study German text. He sat across from her, holding a wrapped, lace scarf.

She tucked her bare legs under her and blatantly buttoned her dressing gown. He waited until she was finished, and then said, "Don't you want to see what I have for you?"

"I suspect so," she answered, relinquishing her books.

The scarf fell partially open and he pulled out her emerald hairpin, her cross necklace, and a pearl bracelet she hadn't even known she was missing. He laid them all diligently in her outstretched hand. "I found them," he announced triumphantly.

Her fingers clutched at them, shocked. It was baffling how they had gone missing down here in the first place, and now he had mysteriously discovered them all together?

"You stole them!" she exclaimed.

The grey eyes she knew so well narrowed, seriously offended. "How unkind! I _found _them."

"Yes, but did you find them because you took them in the first place?"

"I found them," he repeated stubbornly. The hairpin smelled metallicay and looked a little darker than how she had remembered, but it was most definitely hers. Erik watched her closely as she examined them.

Exasperated, she tucked them in her side and exploded with, "Erik! Why would you take my things? Were you intentionally trying to anger me?"

He was quiet for a long time, like a little boy sulking. "I was trying to be good, giving them back," he said shortly. "It's not stealing if you give them back. I was trying to be good, this is what I get?"

She reached out a consoling hand while his eyes dropped dully to the floor. If he was trying to trick her into feeling guilty, well, he was doing a very good job. "Don't think that… It was wrong of me to assume. I am thankful you have returned them to me." When he made no response, she lifted her hand down his cheek and rested on his shoulder.

There was a snap reaction; one second, he was sitting across from her, and the next second he was on top of her.

"What did I say about touching me?" he said in frustration.

All of the breath was knocked out of her. "Why wouldn't you like me touching you?" she gasped as he rolled her over on her back and hovered over her, his face gaunt and pale in the orangish light.

He laughed, a slightly hysterical sound. "Why wouldn't I like it? I _want_ it. I want it so badly you could not even imagine! You, who is used to frequent touches, no matter how small or how heartfelt. I want touch so badly that it's almost not enjoyable when I _am_ touched! Do you know how long it took me to get used to it? And now…" His voice became almost a whine. "… I am growing to expect it… so dangerous! This cannot lead to anything good."

"It could lead to something very good," she said.

He kissed her almost in anger, and she wondered if she was so used to his dark moods that she wouldn't known anger from passion anyway. His fingers found the soft area beneath her breasts and pushed with the tinniest amount of pressure. She drew in a startled breath in his mouth, and he said, "Be a good girl, Christine, and stay still for me."

There wasn't a single doubt in her head to disobey him this time. Her heart pounded even faster than it had the other day in the catacombs; she was afraid that one time, it would finally explode.

"Erik," she sighed, and he slipped his hands down over her and pulled on the hem of her dressing gown lower, so it exposed her collarbone and high chest. His hands curled around her waist as he lifted her up to him and pushed his lips against hers—the mask dug into the left side of her face, but she said nothing of it. His hands lay flat against her stomach now, but rose higher with every passing breath. As much as her panic spread, suddenly she wanted him to take her right now, take her on the sofa in the library room, in a spontaneous and exhilarating way. She could feel something between her legs, and she was quite certain it was not his belt.

"Look what I've done," he moaned, only an inch from her face. "I came up here to do something good." His eyes closed. "But it's _your_ fault. _I _can't help it."

His hands, although still outside her gown, were touching her up and down, as if he had never felt a female body before. He seemed most fascinated by under her breasts, although he took great care to not touch them directly. She wanted to giggle at it, and decided to do something herself.

She kissed his clothed chest and worked her way up to right under the mask. When her lips touched the beginnings of the ravaged area under the material, he suddenly shivered so hard that Christine's innocent book on the cushion fell to the floor with a _thunk._ It startled both of them, so that Christine sat up awkwardly, one leg around his waist, the other still under his weight.

It was like he was trying to pull away, but his body wouldn't let him. He leaned back, struggling with himself, and it was almost funny to see him like that. He finally gave up, keeping her tucked against him, now in a more comforting than sensual position. "It's nice to feel human touch that is kindly, rather than angry…" He brushed his bare hand against her wrists. "And to feel your skin is almost…" His mouth remained opened, his eyes locked on their intercrossed fingers.

"…Overwhelming?" she finished helpfully.

He struggled away from her again, but she held tight.

"Overwhelming," he agreed. "Let go of me, Christine, please let go of me and I promise not to leave…"

She took her hands away and he finally succeeded in leaning away from her. She watched him tremble, and shake his head.

Wordlessly, she extended her hand to him again. He looked at it as though she was brandishing a weapon.

"Such a dangerous thing to get used to," he said mournfully. He dropped his arm to her waist again and pulled her against him, and the two leaned back on the couch, holding hands.

.


	13. Act XIII

**A/N: I desperately need a new laptop. Mac or PC?**

.

The shadows on the white walls solidified into dark monsters that surrounded the white bed in a circle. She pulled the covers over her head, but the bed was shaking, trembling violently with the force of their attack, and the monster turned into soldiers, all with their guns pointed at her…

Christine threw the covers off and gasped curses at all of them, the sound shattering the black figures into mist. Tangled and shaking, she stumbled off the bed and into Erik.

"You're sleeping," he told her, before she could even say anything. "You're sleeping, that's all."

"The bed was shaking," she sobbed.

"No, you were dreaming."

"But it was, even when I was awake."

Erik lifted her back onto the bed, but she clung around his neck, refusing to relinquish him. "Christine." he said.

"There are things in this room," she whispered, determined to make him understand that this was not a normal nightmare. She wanted him to know that she had been having it every night for the past week, and there was nothing so could do to make them go away. "They come from the walls, every night. And they call me to me, they try to make me crazy… They tell me horrible things."

She waited for reassurance, comfort, or anything from him, and traced the collar of his shirt with her finger.

Without speaking, he lifted her into his arms and walked out of the room and down the steps. "Where are we going?" she wondered aloud.

He went through the cavern room, where a chill made her shake in her thin nightgown. He glanced down at her and automatically, his hand went out to touch her leg, to keep her warm, to pull her skirt down past her knees. She only stared at him as he opened the door to his room.

It was the one room she had never been inside. It had a simple double bed near the corner with tall, grey bedposts, and a pile of grey sheets on the floor. A tiny piano was in the other corner and shelves lined the entire eastern wall. A rosewood chest sat against the other.

She thought it looked almost normal.

Erik laid her down gently upon the bed and picked up the sheets to toss over her. She grabbed his shirt. "They can still reach me here," she whispered fearfully. "They'll find me here, it makes no difference where I am!"

He shook his head. "No, they can't," he said, and his voice was firm. "It is not where you are… It is who you are with…" He dropped his lips and kissed her forehead all the way down to her neck. It burned a little where he touched.

Her hand became relaxed, and she dropped it lazily down to his chest, brushing each button on his suit coat. "Stay," she slurred.

He slid next to her, pressed against her grey sheets. His weight made her roll into him, drawn to the slight indentation in the mattress. Her leg curled against him, chaining him to the bed. She would make sure he would not leave her tonight.

"Tell me I was just dreaming," she whispered. "Tell me it was just my imagination."

His hand drifted out uncertainly and touched the bottom hem of her nightgown. "The demons down here are very real," he breathed, his left hand stroking the material. "They are drawn to you because you have such light. Light that they have never seen down here before."

Her fingers curled around his jacket in possessiveness. Well, she wasn't going to let them get to him. And he would not let them get to her.

"But you are safe here," he continued. "They cannot come near you now."

"Why not?" she asked.

His eyes seemed to glow with unnatural light in the darkness, and he released her nightgown to hold her very carefully.

"They are afraid of me." he said.

Christine left his room as soon as she woke up and went straight upstairs, only to discover that an evening production was just beginning. She snuggled herself against one of the plush sofas in the complimentary overview box—after making sure the door was locked. Erik came up not long afterwards, opened the door easily, and came up behind her. His hands covered hers over the armrest and he kissed her upside-down. After just a moment, he made to draw away, but she grabbed him and slid her tongue over hers. Perhaps it was bad of her… but she liked to feel his tension, his nervousness, when she took charge. It was one tiny part of him she could control.

"Look at how terribly tense she is," Christine said, releasing him and feeling him exhale in shock. "And she's so fat!"

"She's old," he offered, straightening up.

"Much too nervous."

"You would have been better," Erik said, and his hand tightened through her hair, pulling painfully. "And to think you are dead… and can never perform up there again…"

"You sound nostalgic," she said, without taking her eyes away from the stage.

"And you sound bitterly uncaring," he said back. "All that work I invested into you, and no one will ever hear it. No one will ever enjoy it. Except for me." She glanced over at him, and saw his eyes were alight with some sort of fanatical glow. "All that work… Only me."

"You complain about that a lot," she noted. "But I think you enjoy it. Don't you enjoy having me all to yourself?"

He stiffened and looked at her with a critical eye. "I noticed your voice first. I shaped it for _my _music, for _their_ ears. And they did not appreciate us. So they suffer your loss and I gain an immaculate jewel to my collection."

"I think that was a _yes_," she said, settling back into her seat. "Now shush, my favorite part is coming up."

He did shush; in fact, he became so unusually quiet that she constantly looked over to see if he was still there. He always was, the tips of his fingers together as he viewed the show with uncharacteristic silence. Erik could never keep quiet through one of the operas. He always had something to say.

"Are you alright?" she asked softly, eventually unable to bear the uncertainty of not knowing what he was thinking.

"Yes," he replied, just as quiet, and he said no more.

Neither of them moved for the rest of the act.

Why was there a wall between them like this? No matter how close she crept to him, no matter how she threw herself at him, he was being much too careful to withhold himself around her. She didn't know what it was, and that worried her. Yes, he loved her, and she had seen proof of this in too many ways to doubt it, but this was not the type of love she had yearned for. It was more like a respectful adoration, and she no longer wanted that. She wanted to be his companion, a worthy partner of his darkness. She didn't want to be a girl anymore; she wanted to be a woman, and she wanted to be his. Erik was never all right. There was always something wrong, and she wanted to know what it was.

She was light, he was dark. That's how it was.

Somehow, she wanted to merge and exploit it. Erik searched for some lighter part of darkness to comfort himself with.

She searched for the darker side of light.

After the second act of the show, Christine was restless and she was tired of the performance. Erik did not move his eyes away from the stage as she stood and went towards the door. A few people were out rustling in the hallway and she opened it just a crack to look out.

It was a strange surge of emotion to see people again. It was like she had walked into another world. There were bodies everywhere, moving throughout the narrow hallway, their voices echoing something terrible. Her heart shot up into her throat.

"What are you doing, Christine?" Erik asked in a patronizing tone. She ignored him.

What was the point of being a ghost if you did not really exist?

Without turning back to Erik, she slithered out the door and through the scarcely populated section of loitering. Eyes glanced over her, glanced through her, as if she was not really there. Only a ghost… until she met their eyes. Then they noticed her and looked strangely at her, at this pale figure walking almost drunkenly through the hallways. The two young men staring at her were entranced; she could tell. She waved.

From the box came Erik's sigh.

Christine tried to duck through and back to the box, but it appeared she had made a grave mistake by initiating human contact if she could not get away. One reached out to grab her, as if to stop her, and she was so shocked she nearly fell over.

"Are you alright?" the rough voice said. "You look lost."

"She looks sick," murmured the other one.

There were always two… It seemed in human nature, everything was in pairs…

"You look so pretty," he was saying again. "Want a smoke with me?"

She could not talk—she would not talk. She would not waste her voice on mere humans.

"I said, so you want a smoke with me…? She looks bad. Should we take her to a hospital?"

She hadn't even realized he had gotten up, but Erik's hand suddenly seized her collar and dragged her back into the box. He was exasperated with her, and he pushed her into one of the side curtains. It was more of a trap than anything else, because the two young men could not resist the lure of seeing someone disappear so suddenly like that.

"Where did she-?"

Erik grabbed him around the head and Christine could never ever get over the sound of that c_rack_, that made heads drop like macabre dolls. His mouth twitched. Erik's hands slid off his neck without a second thought.

Two seconds. All it took to end years of life. Year of growing, learning, living… All stopped.

The other screamed and began to run down the hall.

Erik turned to her with angry eyes. "Do you want to chase after him, or shall I have to do it?"

"Why would I chase after him?" she demanded in a frantic whisper.

"You were the one that caught his attention!"

"What do you expect me to do with him?"

"If I go after him, then I kill him. Is that what you want?"

Christine couldn't see any other option. If he escaped, then Erik might be caught, and she could not let that happen. "Will you just go, please?"

"Say it, Christine," he hummed impatiently. "I have to hear you say it."

"Yes!" she cried out, disgusted. "Go kill him!"

He vanished out the door while she remained standing there, the body of the young man on the floor, his head too far up against the floor. His eyes were half-open, and she turned away so those eyes were not staring at her.

She stepped out into the hallway and gasped to find a crowd of people _right there_.

"_What_ are you _doing_?" Erik said through gritted teeth from behind her, and she was running, past the hallway and into the side door. Only one lone man had pursued them, and Erik suddenly turned around and reached one hand around his throat, seized under his neck and jerked upwards with inhuman strength before dropping him and following her into the sealed door.

He was right behind her, and as soon as they were safely out of sight, he grabbed her and shoved her hard into the wall.

"What just happened with you?" he demanded, and when she wriggled away from the wall on instinct, he wrapped one arm around her…

…_seized under his neck and jerked upwards…_

She froze.

"You did that on purpose, for attention!" he continued angrily, apparently not aware of the eerily similar death grip he now had on her. "Is that the type of attention you want?"

All it would take was one swift movement from those hands, and she too would be as lifeless as the two foolish young men who had come after them, who had not come to the Opera intending to die tonight…

With slight pressure, as if he had suddenly realized his precarious position or the expression of fear on her face, he lifted up her head to press a light kiss on her forehead and then offer her his hand.

_I would never hurt you, _he seemed to say.

_Wouldn't you?_

She met his eyes, which were as soft as she remembered, as calculating as she had foreseen. He was waiting for her reaction.

Without speaking, she slipped her arms around him and pulled him close to her, her face smooth against him. "People will be passing through soon," she murmured into the fabric of his coat, thankful for the familiarity, nodding her nose up to touch the skin on her neck. She loved his neck, his jaw, despite what he did to others, and she watched as he flinched at the contact and swallowed. She loved his displays of weakness, where he was not so distant and dethatched, where she managed to bring him down to natural humanity. Control made her bolder, and she wanted to taste his skin to see if he felt how he looked and smelled. Her tongue dipped out from between her lips and touched lightly to his pulse, and although she wanted to wither away, she kept herself strong and stable… a woman worthy of him.

It mattered not that Erik had just killed three men for virtually no reason. It only mattered that he loved her, and only her. And he would never hurt her.

_Right?_

"People will be passing through," he echoed hoarsely.

His warning came not a moment too soon: a pair of two young girls emerged from the other hallway—they both stopped in alarm and stared down the hall with wide eyes.

Erik lurched away from her, and she saw him struggle with his swirl of emotions as he tried to calculate his attack.

Christine laid a hand on his arm "Let them be," she ordered, as they fled instantly, running away. "We can leave now, we can leave…"

He remained rooted to the spot, gazing after them with a look on his face she could not interpret.

"Erik, we can leave. Let's leave, go back home…"

He seized her hand so hard, so unexpectedly, that she really thought he might have broken her fingers. "Don't tell me what to do!" he snapped, his voice dangerously loud in the hallway. Her heart sank; was he going to let his temper expose them? "You cannot pick and choose who you punish. That is how you get hurt!"

"No one's going to hurt you," she whispered placatingly. They were so close to the hidden stairway, if she could only get him to it…

But she should have known better than to worry. Erik was the master of stealth, he had been doing this for many more years than her, and he had never been caught before. Before she could plead with anymore logic, he had twisted her hand and dragged her into the revolving door and down the steps.

.


	14. Act XIV

**A/N: Why, look at that! A really quick update. It's because I'll be out of town until July 15th, so there won't be anything until then. So here's a present.**

.

"Erik, slow down!" she said as she was nearly flung off the thin steps as she raced to keep up with him. He spun to face her, and she withdrew in shock. When did he suddenly get so angry…?

"Why do you _let_ people pry, Christine?" he yelled, close to her face, still sounding like Zeus in the sheltered area. "You let it, you enjoy it, because you are pretty and you think they cannot possibly hurt you—everyone can hurt you! You don't exist with them anymore, you exist with me! Have you forgotten?"

He was actually shaking with anger, and literally growling with each breath in frustration. Half terrified, half thrilled with him, she reached out to touch his chest to feel him for herself.

He pushed her hand away with such force that she stumbled into the wall behind her, and then suddenly, his hands constricted her body as his lips assaulted hers.

_Help_… was her first thought. She couldn't breathe as he strangled her and loved her in one motions. Her panic was oddly short-lived—barely three long, terrifying seconds passed before he tore both his lips and his hands away from her. Her heart still pumping furiously throughout her body, she crumpled to the floor as a brief sheen of black obscured her vision.

Pacing and holding his hands out, he said, "No, no, of course not," over and over again while his hands made motions as if tracing something in midair.

She pulled herself up, taking in deep breaths to slow down her heart rate, and simply waited for him to calm down. There were some things about him that she would just never understand, and she had to stop expecting that she should.

"Get up," he said quietly. "And come close to me."

She went to him and leaned against him, and he seemed perfectly content for those few moments to just put his arms around her and feel her there. Even as his fingers rubbed the ends of her hair and he gently rocked her, she was not fooled—she had seen the fire in his eyes and knew his temper was not yet over.

Tentatively, she laid her hand and face against him, and he gasped.

"Are you alright?" she asked in alarm, drawing away, afraid she had somehow hurt him. He frantically shook her head, whether answering her question or telling her he was not going to answer, and then took her arm and began to descend down the stairs again while she followed once more. By the time they reached the stone, she said, "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"The hell with them," he said, and pushed her inside, burning with some sort of concealed anger. Her heart thudded in her chest.

He didn't stop until he reached his bedroom, the one taboo place. Christine hesitated, pulling back automatically. Instinct warned her that this was one place she did not want to be tonight.

"What" he said angrily, displeased by her reaction and tugging impatiently on her arm so that she followed him carefully. The room was very similar to last night—the sheets were even in the same pile off the bed.

Erik bolted the door—was he expecting company?—and Christine watched the way he moved, remembering the way he had glided over the two young men, imagining what he would be like if he leapt at her… She felt a strange need stir in her.

And then he said, "Take off your dress."

The world stopped. "What?" she said pitifully.

_Is this happening?_

"Take off your dress," he repeated, accentuating each word with a roughness that was coarse against his tone. "I am not going to say it again."

She watched him turn his back on her and go unbutton the cuffs of his jacket. He then turned to face her again, looking at her sourly.

"Take off your dress," he said steadily. "Or shall I do it?"

Christine shook her head, jumping to obey him. Nervousness and fear trickled into her now. She had so many wonderful scenarios planned out on how to make him take her, but now it seemed she had waited too long. Panic and exhilaration burst in her chest.

She pulled clumsily at the buttons on her front and slipped her arms out of each sleeve. He watched her lazily, like a cat, his arms crossed. "No rush," he told her, watching her struggle.

Irritated by his unfazed manner, she pulled the dress off clumsily, dragging her hands down her side, making him look. She did not want him standing there, taking control from her – she wanting him panting with desire. She stepped out of it daintily, and then kicked it over by the wall. As she raised her hands to pull off her underdress, he said, "Stop."

She paused, uncertain. Was he going to take that off?

He advanced on her, a hungry look in his eye. "Haven't you wanted it, Christine? Does it not drive you crazy, how we so eloquently avoid it? But it will be so natural for us, it will, because it is _exactly_ what we both want. Don't you want us connected like that?"

She hated when he spoke the truth like so. She covered herself with her arms and let her hair fall into her face.

"Oh, darling," he said softly. "It makes it so much more fun when you pretend to resist me."

Ignoring him, she pulled each cord from the stitch of her corset and pulled her arms through it, letting it fall down by the dress. Erik kept his eyes on the discarded clothes and did not look back up until she had stepped forward. She had the feeling that she had suddenly made him distinctly nervous, and she was glad of it. Without breaking her gaze, she extended her arms towards him and he grasped both of her hands while his eyes dropped down to look at her body. The chemise was thin. It did not leave her shape much to the imagination.

_Please want me, Erik. I've dreamed so of making you want me._

He lightly pushed her backwards. "I want to see more of you," he said quietly, forcing her to sit on the edge of the bed. He lifted up the cream skirt to above her knees, and an overwhelming rush of blood hit her, whether from fear or something else she knew not.

It was impossible, at this level of his waist, to not look at him. And it was impossible not to have her heart rate speed up even more at what she saw.

Erik did not let her stares go unnoticed. "That is what a woman can do to a man," he replied reasonably enough, as if he was not bothered by his own arousal between his legs. "Proves I am man after all, eh?"

"But we're not married," she whispered. She could not stop staring at it. His hand touched her leg… Oh, God… _Who cared_?

He shrugged, still fighting very hard to stay in control. "This is my world, Christine, remember. _Our_ world. We make our own rules."

"Is this in the rules?" she asked, sliding her legs up.

"You are down here, are you not? You chose to _stay_ down here, with me. That is a bond stronger than any marriage, I think."

He leaned into her and kissed her lips, then slipped down her neck and between her breasts. She steadied herself on the bed to reach and grab his shoulders , but he still kept himself several inches away from her. He nipped at her lips with every passing second, and each time he drew away, it was like something clung and always brought them back together.

"Are you pleased?" he whispered.

She kissed him back, drawing him deeper in, like how waves came up on the ocean. He fidgeted against her and she tasted him and touched him with unsure fingers. Slipping from control, she pulled slightly at his half-undone jacket before he slid up against her.

"I have no idea what I'm doing," he chanted as he trailed his lips over her forehead and cheeks.

Deciding to briefly regain control from him, she tugged at him and pulled him completely atop her on the bed. Instantly, he was between her legs and if only there had not been clothes between them, they would have been fully joined. He let out an electrifying moan while his grip became violently more intense on her, slipping down to her waist and pushing her against him. She reached up to his jacket and tried to take it off.

He stopped her. "Do you want me?" he said breathlessly. "Oh God…" His hips surged into hers. "Do you want me?"

"Yes."

Trembling, looking as though he would rather do anything else, both of his hands removed his mask. "But do you still want me?" he repeated, and the side of his face was gruesome, terrible, and alluring. His face reminded her that no one had ever touched him before. What extraordinary power that put in her grasp!

"Yes," she said again. She would reassure him to the end of time, if she must.

He lifted up her dress and she sucked in a breath to feel chilly hands against the sides of her hips. His fingers, deft even through this, traced up her skin to the lace underneath. He moaned again, tensing in what she assumed was an effort to keep himself together. "Do you promise to want me?" he cried out.

"Yes!"

He moved against her one last time, and then suddenly sprang back, looking horrified, covered his face and fled the room.

And everything fell silent.

She sat up uncertainly, still confused by the sensations that coursed through her body. An uncomfortable feeling that made it difficult to stay still continued thudding in her until she eventually laid back against the thin covers and closed her eyes. There was no point in going after him now. Feeling a little dizzy, she pulled the rest of the covers to wrap around her and saw no other choice but to wait on his bed, hoping, praying that he would come back.

He did. She was almost asleep when he returned, still looking tired and almost a little angry, but much more calm. She was instantly awake and he came and carefully picked her out of the old covers and carried her away.

"What is it?" she asked, petrified that she had done something wrong as she tried to get settled in his grip. "Why are you moving me?"

"Because you are cold and uncomfortable," he said, and she could feel the reverberations in his chest from his voice go right through her. "Get a good night's sleep. One more night alone in your room."

"One more night?" she repeated blankly, terrified he was going to make her leave.

"Yes. One more night. And then tomorrow is a big day." She expected him to carry her all the way into bed, but he dropped her down at the doorway, her underskirts sliding off him as she straightened herself into a standing position. It was like he did not want to set even one foot inside the white walls.

"Why?" she asked.

His eyes glittered with ice. "Tomorrow we are getting married."

.


	15. Act XV

**A/N: This chapter was extremely difficult for me to write. I am slightly fearful of the reviews I might get. **

**.**

_Tomorrow we are getting married._

Christine woke as suddenly as if cold water had suddenly been doused upon her. Sitting straight up, her heart beating furiously, she had to think for a moment why she felt so anxious. Once it hit, however, she leapt to her feet to the door to peer out the dimly lit hallway.

Perhaps it had been him awakening her, because Erik was right there, walking towards the steps. He stopped when he saw her, his eyes remained fixed to her face although she had plenty of her tousled nightgown showing. She stared back at him, assessing his mood. Without a light in the hallway, she could hardly even see the shape of his eye.

"Wear something dark," he advised.

Latching the door behind her, she pawed through her dresses until she found one a black silk and pulled it on. It was astonishingly light once it was one, which she decided was convenient, in case they needed to run.

Downstairs, Erik was in all black as well, his white mask making him look—no, he was not wearing the white mask. It was the same shape, same material, only in a flesh color. She decided instantly that she didn't like it, but understand the need for it in this situation. But she figured if he was going to pretend he was not wearing a mask around her, he might as well truly not wear a mask, no?

All the same, he had always kept the mask on around her and she had no desire to make him stray outside of his comfort zone. Frankly, she liked him with the mask, because it was a unique part of him.

He stared at her for a long time, judging her, his eyes traveling from her face to her hair to her waist. Her waist was apparently one pulling part of her that he was clearly obsessed with. She was desperate to be beautiful for him.

Without thinking, she said, "How do I look?"

He assured her, "Perfect, nothing less. As always."

She was becoming quite dependant on his compliments. Perhaps that was what happened when someone was the only other person in your world; a person she was utterly enthralled and obsessed with. Had he given praises to anyone else? She didn't think so… She certainly hoped not.

He led her out gently, surprisingly so, and they were silent as they would their way through the darkness. There were murky voices echoing around them, footsteps other than their own close by.

But Erik and Christine were ghosts, and they could not be seen.

The outside air was cold. The sky was purple and black, rimmed by a hint of pink amongst the clouds. "Almost dawn," Erik said unnecessarily.

"Where are we going?"

"A small chapel, very small, right about along the bridge. You don't mind if it's small, do you, Christine? You know how I hate grandiose things…"

She smiled at the lie but said, "I don't mind."

.

The priest was confused. "It is much too early for a ceremony. I have many things to do today." His weathered eyes looked Erik up and down. "There is no reason to hide your face in the house of God."

"It is not _God_ I am hiding from," Erik replied swiftly. "It's the intolerant people He created such as yourself. Now marry us."

The priest gave him an indignant look for only a moment before turning to Christine. She stared back at him with wide, innocent eyes that clearly unnerved him.

"The ceremony," Erik said pointedly.

The priest took one of Christine's hands. His hands were thick and heavy, with old and wrinkled skin. "You look nervous. Tell me, has your father validated this—"

Erik seized both of Christine's hands away from him, dropping his loose civility and looking very jealous as he yanked her away. "Are you going to marry us or not?"

In her opinion, it looked as though the priest was not particularly convinced that he wanted to do this, but he stepped back and Erik pulled her roughly through. In fact, she noticed once they were more in the light, the priest seemed to study them closer, his face becoming distinctly nervous as he gaze fluttered between them.

"Allow me… to get my things," he said faintly, retreating back from where he came.

Erik watched him with narrowed eyes, and when she reached out to touch his arm, he swatted her away. "Come closer to me," he said very quietly. "Stay very close and hold onto me." He reached out and grasped one of her hands very tightly as she said this. She waited, quivering.

The priest returned with his book and spoke quietly and rapidly. At the exchange of vows, Erik cut across him again.

"Hurry up," he commanded.

The priest blinked. "A union made from God cannot be rushed. You must vow to each other—"

"We do," he interrupted again, shaking her a little. "Christine, say you do."

"I do," she recited obediently.

The priest, she noticed, was sweating, although it was not very warm. Beads of perspiration slid from his forehead down to his ear, and he wiped it away hastily, and continued with, "Then if you will take out the rings please."

"Not necessary," Erik interjected. "Marry us. I want to hear you say it."

"You… do not have rings?"

"Such vital promises cannot possibly be kept by simple pieces of jewelry," Erik said with vile contempt, as if the idea was the most unrefined thing he had ever heard. Christine was overcome with a strong urge to giggle—this was all so completely Erik, to insist on a wedding, but _his way_. Not that she minded in the slightest; she didn't understand exactly why they needed a marriage validated in _this_ world, when she already considered it valid in _theirs._

"I should… recite a prayer for you," the priest murmured, but quite suddenly, Erik surged forwards and grabbed the front robes of the priest in his fists, knocking the book away. Her hands fell, startled, as she backed off the lily-patterned steps.

"_I am quite impatient with your stalling_!" Erik thundered in _that voice_, and she found she still shivered, even when it was not directed at her. "Do you really think we are going to fall for your silly tricks? Who did you send to the authorities in the other room?"

Christine gasped and took another step back.

The priest mumbled frantically, "They shall be here any moment…"

Erik dragged him forward and the priest whimpered. He was an old man, and he looked as though his bones could easily shatter simply by a hard impact to the ground.

"I want to hear you say it," Erik said in a hard, clear voice. "Tell me she is my wife so no man can impose. Tell me"

The priest looked towards Christine with wide eyes, and she could barely recognize that he was trying to save her, to protect her. He had been so kind, with his thick hands and his deep voice, but all she could think now was, _Traitor…_

"She will be hurt if you will not do it," he whispered into the old man's ear, a dark and chilling promise that she did not know to believe. "Do you want to hurt her? Are you going to allow her to be hurt?"

Christine strayed back from it all. Farther up against the alter, her darker side crushed the priest, his eyes making him look fierce and untamable in the light, the neutral and unfamiliar mask making him look somewhat inhuman, somewhat unnatural. The priest had eyes only for her, his conscience choosing what he had to do to save a life.

"Wife," the priest gasped, and there were tears in his eyes. "May God forgive me… She is your wife."

"Why, thank you," Erik said pleasantly, instantly dropping the man to the floor, who turned to her beseechingly, pleading, "Run, my girl, run—"

And Erik had pulled up one of the adorned and unlighted candles right from the floor, holding the tall instrument in his hand triumphantly, the golden bottom that was until recently, welding it to the floor, very, very sharp as he turned to the crumpled, beaten, pitiful man on the floor between them. Erik flashed his teeth at him, beaming in pride at his plan. The old man did not bat an eye as the being above him lifted the weapon.

Time froze; Christine had the impression that Erik was savoring the moment.

"May God have mercy upon your soul," the priest said quietly.

"But far sooner—may He have mercy on _yours_."

The instrument came down on his chest, making him gag as his arms twitched and he drew terrible, racking breaths. Erik spun the tool lazily into him, and then pulled it out with a horrible noise and threw it aside. It was a still moment—Christine raised her eyes to the crucifix figure above them, His face bent down towards the priest as if in sorrow. _Mercy…?_

But Erik was watching her, beckoning her with one, long finger, and she came close to him.

And with the dead man between them, she kissed him, because she was a good wife.

.


	16. Act XVI

After grabbing the plethora of papers on the side alter and seizing Christine's wrist, they ran.

"It's a shame," Erik admitted, as he held her back and looked around outside. "I really wanted him to sign the papers. Make it official in this world."

He beckoned for her to follow him, and they went out down a narrow bridge that was just starting to reveal a bit of light through the trees.

"What happened?"

"Well, he recognized us, of course," Erik replied smoothly, still pulling at her to make her walk faster. "I had hoped that the farther out we went, the less chance of that there was... No matter. By the time the police arrive, we will be long gone."

"And he sent someone so quickly?"

"He most likely sent the alter boy. Did you not see how nervous he was, or how he left the room so suddenly? He was trying to keep us there, for just a little longer... Such a fool."

Christine crept closer to him as they went directly into the trees of the shadowy forest that looked familiar. Each time she blinked, she saw the imprint of the priest's shape on the floor, right under Erik.

Unexpectedly, her knees gave out.

It was as though he were expecting it, for he steadied her against him and looked at her sternly. "Now, Christine..." he began.

"A priest, Erik? A man is one thing, but a priest?"

"Yes, he was a priest. And he married us."

"In a church, Erik? In a church?"

"The best place to go, my darling."

He tucked the papers in the inside pocket of his coat and extended his skeletal hand to her. "Wife?" he said, his voice somewhat innocent and hopeful. She took it gingerly and he kissed her hand once before he drifted up and kissed her lips with the lightest touch in the world. It was impossible to questions his actions when he had such a steadfast, alluring look in his eyes.

She whispered, "May I visit my father's grave now?"

He gave a slightl chuckle, and drew away. "No, we are quite far away, and I am anxious to get home. Some other time."

"Some other time will be-"

He caught her arm in a vice-like grip, but the hand that brushed her face was exceedingly gentle. He sang to her, "_Beneath the sleeping snow, we'll go someday together...", _and she forgot all about her father's grave.

Her hands placed on his shoulders and pulled him closer, pressing her face into her shoulder where she did not have to think. it was much easier when she did not have to think, when she just a_llowed_ and _accepted_. He rocked her a little, his arms tight around her. Before she knew it, her legs gave out again and she collapsed into him, and his voice echoed in her ears as he said quietly, "It is time to go home."

.

They had no trouble this morning getting into their home unseen. Submerged by the pristine beauty of the gold room and swallowed by the darkness of the place, their wedding day instantly became their wedding night.

Erik took out the papers and flattened them on the nearest little table and retireived a writing instrument. He scrawled for a minute, hesitated, and then held it out to her. "I would love to sign for you," he said quietly. "But I think you should do it."

She crept nearer and looked at the marriage document. It was very short and nondescript. Most of the page was filled with short, cramped printing except for the bottom, where a foreign signature resided from the priest-only Christine knew it was not from the priest. Below that, two lines lay- one blank, the other reading _Erik._

He stood still next to her. His hands were clenched very tightly together.

"Nothing will change with this," he said, and his teeth were clenched just as tightly. "At least not in our world."

But there was one thing she wanted to change... One thing that _needed_ to change between them. And if it did not happen tonight, she would lose her mind.

She signed it, and looked up anxiously with fearful eyes.

_Christine Daae._

He was smiling, if not in a bitter way. "Just how I wanted," he said, his voice hollowed, no victory. She couldn't understand. He collected the papers at once and rolled them together carelessly, and shoved them in the little drawer.

She stood there.

"Christine," he said gently, and he approached her as if she were a wild animal. "We are where we belong now. Everything fits. And we do not need to be happy, we just have to be content. Be content as my bride. Be content as my queen."

"But I _am_happy," she protested as he came even closer. She was where she belonged, where she flourished... She was a ghost's wife; a dark bride who wanted to fufill every duty to be a true equal to him.

He brushed her lips tantalizing, and she wondered if he enjoyed playing with her, and how he would react if she were to reciprocate.

"Do not give me such a scrutinizng look," he instructed her, taking her hands and pulling them up so they were facing each other again. She stepped on his shoes as he moved closer, and he laughed in anticipation.

He pushed her, gently at first, but more and more firmly as they drew into the cavern room and to his bedroom. "Why are you pushing me so?" she asked, but he did not answer. He had stopped laughing.

He turned away from her, only to lock the door as he had before, and then he came back too quickly and pushed his lips almost frantically to hers. Wordlessly, she coaxed him down to her as she backed to the covers, and he followed desperately, pressing her against the bed.

He suddenly stopped. "Do not cry or-or wince or act uncomfortable in any way," he said quickly, and she could actually feel his heartrate under her fingers- or was that hers?

She helped him out of his jacket and shirt very, very carefully, like handling someone who was sick or hurt. Oddly enough, he responded in turn, keeping his hands very gentle on her, like how he had caressed her face in the forest. It was unnerving; it was irritating, to see him so out of character with his control, and she took the lead by pulling him to the middle of the bed, nipping at his lips slowly while continuing to disrobe him.

It was intoxicating to hold such power in her grasp. _She _had the power to unravel the Opera Ghost. Only she had the ability to make him human, to bring him down to the most basic, primal insticts. As long as he had thrilled her, she had wondered... Even when she had been with Raoul, she used to lie in her bed at night and wonder what it would be like to know him as a man - not an angel, not a ghost, not even a teacher... But a rival of love.

His skin was relatively normal looking, very pale-white in the dim light. His wrists were slashed.

She ran her finger over the scars lovingly, and he shuddered. "It did not work," he replied quietly, still taking in quick breaths.

"Good," she murmuered, brushing her lips over the inside of his wrists before releasing them and holding him gently atop of her. His actions were becoming less careful and more agitated as they moved.

He pinned her down once he was in a position to be in control, and effectively removed most of her clothing before she could even get his shirt part way off. Although he was kissing her and holding her, she was also very aware that he was holding her down _very_ tightly-almost too tightly.

She was cold, but she didn't show it. His hands kept her wrists pinned down as he stared at her. He shifted on top of her, longingly.

"What are you waiting for?" she whispered.

He traced a circle onto her stomach, and she sucked in a breath. "You have always belonged to me," he said.

"I belong to you. Let me belong to you completely."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "You have _always_ belonged to me. I poisoned your soul the very first time I called for you, Christine. Say it. Say it back."

"You poisoned my soul."

"Good girl."

"I have always belonged to you."

He moaned again and shifted higher on top of her. Just feeling him in between her legs made her tighten her thighs involuntarily, whether out of protection or invitation, she did not know. She was overcome with feelings that went from her chest to her stomach in swooping motions, and she felt hollow. She wanted him inside her. She wanted him inside her like she had never wanted anything else before.

"Oh, Christine," he said into her, with heated constriction. "You have no idea how badly I have wanted you. How I have burned for you like no other in this lifetime. I will surely die of it."

With her hands still pinned down, he reached for the front of his pants with his other hand. His hand was shaking and he moaned as he released himself, but before she could see anything, he had dropped back in between her legs, only this time she felt skin and it began to scare her.

And suddenly, she wanted to be scared. She did not want him to be gentle. She was sure of his love now. Now she wanted something more.

She flexed her legs, bringing them both up a little to caress him while tightening the hold she had over his groin.

And she guessed he finally snapped. His hands reached out and pushed up her skirts, and it one very unexpected and unfamiliar feeling, he went inside of her. It hurt her more than she could have guess it would. Her insides felt as thought they were being ripped and pushed aside in her body. She looked up at the blank ceiling, feeling tears gather in her eyes, but he lifted up his head and with his awful face, he kissed each tear away from her eyelids before they could fall.

The pain was over before she could dwell on it, and he cried out and instantly stopped moving; the pain stopped with him and faded to a gentle pressure that was uncomfortable, but nice. She liked the feeling of him inside of her. She liked being in control.

His fingers curled uncertainly in her hair.

She sighed to let him know she was alright, and kissed his neck.

He dropped his head into her and held her, too tightly.

He was right - she had _always _belonged to him.

She opened her mouth to say something, but he tucked her face into him and said, "Hush. Please." She tilted her head back to find his lips, and he kissed her for a moment before he broke away, shaking and turning his hands over and over again as he looked at them in disbelief.

It had been the most frenzied, flurried way to lose her virginity that she could imagine, but she felt so much better now that it was over, done with. Now she could say she was physically his, and no one could defuse her statement. Now that it was completed, she did not have to be shy about touching him. She could initiate her own actions now, and she certainly planned on doing that.

What a way to lose her virginity.

And she loved every second of it.

.


	17. Act XVII

"Are you going to leave now?" she asked, when he stirred as if to get up.

"No," he said shortly. "May I... May I stay with you?"

She didn't answer, but he came closer to her anyway and laid down against her chest. Her fingers traced through his shirt on his back it rose up and down with his breathing. It was odd to see him so close to her, so humanized, and even though it was an unusual feeling, she liked that she was able to approach that side of him.

"Am I still not allowed to talk?" Christine murmured.

"What do you want to talk about?" he mumbled back.

She slowly threaded her fingers through his dark hair and when she scraped her fingernails lightly against the nape of his neck, he took a trembling breath.

"Do you know how long I have waited for you?" he asked, still keeping his masked face hidden from her. "Do you know how many times I thought I could never stand to be anywhere near you again, because of the intensity in which I wanted you? And I do not even know if all men feel like this... Or if it is just me. How different am I, Christine? How different am I from most men?"

"I am so glad you are different," she said, and she scooted down a little to be level with him. "I am so glad you are different like me."

He finally turned to face her and it seemed he had forgotten her vulnerability in the few seconds of their conversation, but his eyes fell upon her naked chest almost instantly, with a burning reverence, before he sat up a little and pulled back the blankets from her body. "Let me see you again," he ordered. "Let me memorize you."

Reluctantly, she released the tight-hold on the sheets and closed her eyes. After only a few seconds, she felt his lips kissing her gently, coaxing her to look again.

"You are... so pretty," he breathed. "Just so pretty. And so woman. Women are so different from men. You are so much prettier." He paused, and then he said, "When I wear my mask, I do not look so ugly. But do I look frightening to you?"

"No," she admitted. "But you frighten others."

"Does that please you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

She hesitated, but met the heated stare of his honest gaze and knew that Erik could decipher her thoughts more intimately than she ever could. "Because it makes me feel special. It makes me feel... powerful. Like I am the only one who knows you."

He smiled bleakly at her words. "Such a power struggle we have," he said musingly, playing with a piece of her hair. "We are the most powerful people in the world, and we do not even exist."

He kissed her once more, and then shifted her a little as he laid his hands lightly on her side. Very softly, he touched her skin almost clinically, like he was examining it for some thing. When he got near her legs, she couldn't help but tighten again.

His eyes dark, he glanced up at her. "Let me in," he sang quietly.

Slowly, she relaxed, and his wondering hand went on the insides of her thighs, just beyond that hollow spot. Without meaning to, her eyes squeezed shut.

"Why do you close you eyes?" he demanded instantly. "Why shield your sight from me?"

"Because..." she said, not thinking clearly. "Because... I am not worthy of you."

"You must not say such things," he countered. "We are worthy of each other. We are perfect for each other. Like missing pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, Christine... We fit together _marvelously_." He abandoned her legs and came back up to her torso, drifting his face lightly over her stomach before coming to rest on her chest, his gaze tight upon her. He wanted her again, she was not stupid, and she could see it in his eyes as well feel it against her legs. She stared back at him, trying to understand the complexity that was him- the complexity that was her.

"Erik," she whispered. "I am so glad I am here, with you."

He shifted. "Do you say that to reassure me, or yourself?"

"To please you with the truth," she said back. "You were right all along- you were always right. I need you. I want you. I have always known you were the other half of me."

He nuzzled her hair, but his weight was constricting again. "But I found you," he said. "I struggled for you. You are mine."

She smiled a little at him, and he only stared back at her, and then climbed back on top of her again, the dark look back in his eyes.

"Let me in," he sang again, and she did.

.

When she awakened, her husband was gone.

She had expected that, but it did not make her any less unnerved. Where was her, why was he there, and what was she expected to do about it? It was quite a job, determining whther or not Erik's departures were because he wanted to be left alone, or come after. It was always a mystery.

"Erik?" she called softly, padding only to the doorway to see if he was perhaps just outside. It somehow disappointed her that he had already moved on to other things after last night. _Don't be spoiled_, she thought sourly, but she certainly was spoiled, and wanted it to remain that way.

Checking in each of the rooms downstairs, and a brief scan of the upstairs let her know that he was not in the house, so she went to the heavy front door and pulled, hoping against hope that he was only right out front, but he was not. Hesitantly, glancing dazedly around as if there was bound to be a soldier right there, she took timid steps in a general direction.

And upon leaving sight of the door, she heard murmured voices and brief, quiet laughing that was certainly not her husband- her heart shot up into her throat, and she turned to run the other way when he grabbed her.

She made a sound half in relief, half in terror, relaxing against him, and he shook her slightly, asking, "Are you awake?"

"Why do you keep asking that?" she questioned intently, staring up at him. He was wearing some sort of thin cloak with a hood to hide his face, although she caught the white gleam of his mask under it anyway. "What are you wearing? What are you doing?"

He pulled her away from him to look at her, and then softly kissed her forehead. "I am so glad you're awake," he said somewhat wistfully.

Another loud rumble of voices echoed.

Her hands pulled at him, and he held her patiently, brushing his finger against the fabric of her robe. Something about him seemed familiar to her in this moment, and when she closed her eyes for the briefest of seconds, she was back in the music study by the lake, with his mask off and anger and fear on his face, with Raoul calling her help in the background...

When she opened her eyes, it was just Erik, masked and hooded, staring at her with soulful eyes.

"Thoughts?" he asked languidly, keeping his one hand tight upon her as the other hand kept it's maneuver around the lace.

"Only of you," she assured him without thinking, and he looked at her closely before shaking his head.

"Is this the truth?" he asked no one in particular.

He raised his hand up to her collarbone and then lowered his head and pressed his ear against her, closing his eyes. "I can hear your heart," he said dreamily. "I can hear your life. So beautiful. And all mine."

Looking down at him she touched each of her fingers to a strand of his hair, and he seemed very human to her, which was odd. How difficult it was to choose how to view him! Did she prefer him as man, or master? Was there not a way she could combine the both? But nevertheless, he was a real man. Even if he was nothing more than a mystical creature to others, he was to her, and _only_ her. All hers.

The odd laughter sounded again.

"Will they ever go away?" she murmured dejectedly.

"Not likely," he said. "They have established new security measure in all parts of the Opera House, and down here is no exception."

"Why are you out here?" she asked, touching the hood of the cloak.

He hesitated. "Listening," he admitted.

He played with the lace for a little bit longer while she asked, "But why did you leave me...? Alone?"

His face was uncomprehending. "What do you mean? I leave the house all the time. Have you been bothered by it?"

"Not usually," she said dispassionately. "But... I thought you would want to stay... with me."

His fingers finally stilled in the last, one hand keeping her waist steady while the other came up to swiftly touch her hair around her shoulder. "You wanted me with you?" he questioned, sounding curious. "When I did not need to be there?"

"Well, yes, of course!" she said quizzically. "We should have been sleeping the same bed a long time ago. I like having you next to me. Don't you?"

"Oh, yes," he recited.

"Then tomorrow you will stay in bed with me."

He thought about this for a minute, his face rather blank. "What if I wake up before you? Surely you do not expect me to waste my time waiting around for you?"

"Wake me up," she said at once, a bit stung that he thought laying by her was a time-waster.

He pursued his lips for a moment, making him look half-terrifying, half-comical, and then touched her own lips very gently with his fingers. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out and he simply stared at her for several heart-stopping seconds before he stepped away, severing the physical contact and breaking the spell.

"Come back home with me," she said, reaching her hand out towards him eagerly, and he took it warily, and she appreciated the warmth and heaviness of his hand in hers. Tugging at him a little, he followed with a foggy gaze.

"You did not think we would be any different as man and wife, did you?" he demanded suddenly, stopping only feet from the hidden door and staring at her with almost anger. "That we would go out more, or that things would be different between us, did you?"

"I thought it would only better," she answered, choosing what she hoped was a safe answer. She paused. "Do you want to go out more, now that you have a wife? Is there anything you _wanted_to change?" When he didn't answer, she drew towards him a little worriedly. "Erik... You must answer me. Tell me what you want."

"You," he said dryly.

"You have me. You always have."

"Now," he continued. "I do not want to change anything. I want to go inside. To the bedroom!"

She let him pull her in and placed her hand on his. "Why do you always ask if I am awake?" she questioned, spurred to ask him before she forgot once again. He looked back at her, with glittering eyes and his cold persona that nevertheless warmed her heart.

"Just to see if you are dreaming," he stated eerily.

"Dreaming?" she repeated.

"Dreaming," he echoed firmly, and he opened the door, guided her in, and latched it behind them.

.


	18. Act XVIII

.

Something changed the smallest amount. It was impossible for Christine to completely place it, but it was most definitely there.

The first awkward hesitation was the second night, when it was no longer the much-awaited first time and she did not know what he would expect from her. She changed into her nightclothes upstairs as usual, only to be accosted by him at the washroom door. He carried her all the way downstairs and dumped her unceremoniously on the bed. She reached to untie her robe, but he stopped her with a shake of his head.

"I am going to undress you slowly tonight," he explained.

His words were only partly true – she was still clothed when he took her—it was only a few minutes before it seemed his need for her was too great and he took her by simply pushing her skirt up. It did not hurt in the same stinging way of last night, but it was sore and uncomfortable.

But words could not describe how much she loved to hold him, to watch him get what he deserved. Somehow, it was impossible to imagine that this was the same for anyone else. Surely not. There was something special about him and her, and only them.

What was it that was so different about them? Was it destiny? Was it fate?

Erik seemed incapable of speech, but his eyes fluttered and he steadied himself for some sort of communication when she touched his face with one finger.

"I waited so long for you to be my wife," he said. "And now we should be equal…"

She nudged her nose against him fondly, and he gazed at her for a few more minutes before he put his arm around her face and kissed her.

It was, by far, the most tender she could recall Erik ever being with her, and sighed into his mouth, and she felt like his wife.

.

The singing didn't change—how could the singing ever change?—except for maybe he looked for opportunities to touch her more, his hand lingering. Could she ever be comfortable enough to throw her music down and just kiss him, or would she always wait for him to initiate it first? He either responded warmly or was impartial to her touch.

It amused her the tiniest bit when he attempted to ignore her sometimes. She would trail her hand over his shoulder, and he would tense up and his gaze would flicker to her, and then he would look back at his music like nothing had happened. It was fun to make him nervous. It was fun to have all the control.

Time had no meaning—if he wanted her now, he took her now. He had never been a patient man.

"Christine," he said against her neck when he was done moving inside of her. "I am doing something wrong. I am not stupid, you know," he added as an afterthought.

"Oh no," she said at once. "You are doing nothing wrong at all."

And she knew was he was referring to, but she did not want to talk about it.

He must have sensed her unease, but he went on with, "Why are you holding back? Don't you want to reach pleasure?"

"I like it just how it is," she replied.

"But you will like it even better," he offered darkly, skimming his lips down her neck and pulling open her nightgown. When he looked at her, she felt like the goddess of beauty. And when she could make him lose control for those few precious minutes where he lost himself, she felt beautiful. But she did not want to lose that kind of control around him. She didn't want to think about herself; she _wanted_ to think about him. He could not imagine how badly she wanted to only think about him.

She arched her back when he licked her. How could it get any better than this feeling? "You are so close," he whispered. "What's stopping you?"

"Nothing," she breathed.

He moved his hands down to hold her hips.

"What are you doing?" she shot suspiciously when his hands slid down there.

He gave her an irritated look. "Lie back."

"I don't want that, I don't like that," she babbled, unnerved by the uncomfortable and foreign movements. "Just take me again."

"You haven't even tried it yet."

"I don't want to. It was perfect before. Stop!"

He grabbed her ankle, and his fingers bit into her skin. "Don't you tell me to stop," he snapped. "I am not doing anything wrong. Lie back, wife!"

She laid back, and his face grew softer. "There, now you are listening. Good things always come to those who listen…"

She turned away and closed her eyes and breathed through her nose. His hands were soft, and they touched her skin like she was breakable. And gently, he sang in a whispered voice under his breath.

"Erik," she said through almost-closed lips. "Why a wedding ceremony? Why could we not just be together here?"

"Official, darling, official in their world. It was already official in our world, but I wanted it validated in any possible place it could be. If there is another world somewhere out there, we will be married there, too."

"Marriage is such a simple sounding thing when it is used to describe us."

"I understand, darling, I do. We are so much more than marriage. We are one being. We are separate halves to a whole. We have been bound to each other since the beginning."

"You said that me staying down here with you was a bond stronger than any marriage. You said that, do you remember?"

"Of course," he said.

Her heart was speeding up. His lips caressed right beneath her breast, and she felt like there was some sort of rhythmic music that he was going along to, something he was trying to make her hear.

"Erik," she said. "What are you doing?"

He came back up to her, holding her tightly as he climbed on top of her. A pounding echoed in her ears and pulsed throughout her body.

"You want me, " he said in a loving whisper. "Do you not?"

"Yes," she said.

"And you want me to take you."

She nodded.

"Tell me how."

She looked back into his grey eyes and was shocked at the intimacy she saw in them. How many months ago was it that she trembled at the sight of him? How long ago was it when she ran from him, hoping he would chase her? When was it that he seemed so untouchable, so inhuman, so very far away from her? The feeling she'd experienced only the other day outside of their house, like she was looking back at her memories through a looking glass, was the most peculiar feelings. How things had changed!

"I want you… to hold me…"

"I will always hold you. You're mine."

"… and tell me that I belong to you…

"You do."

"And…" Her eyes filled with moisture, and she couldn't believe it. "I want to _feel_ like your equal…I want you to have me and only me… I want to have you…"

"Not being honest," he murmured against her chest, and he began to kiss her again, and the feeling rose within her.

"Not being honest?" she asked in unease. "I am speaking the truth!"

"But you are holding back," he said consolingly. "Don't hold back, Christine… Stop holding back…"

"I—I want you to – hold me down," she whispered. "I want you to lose control. I want to feel like I am an equal part of you, the other side of you, the lighter side of you… I want you…"

Whatever he was doing to her was rising inside of her, and it made her want to cry from how foreign and strange it felt, and how it was like she needed to get something out her. And for the first time when he went inside of her, it was not uncomfortable or raw feeling, but countered nicely with the pressure inside of her; when he moved, she gasped. _Perhaps he knew what he was talking about after all… When had he ever been wrong, anyway? _And when it happened—she felt it, she _felt_ it, and it was the strangest, most desperate feeling in her, and her hands clutched at him only to bring him closer, to move without thought, to sustain this feeling of absolute euphoria that left her breathless with a pounding heart.

He did not prompt her to say anything, but pulled her closer, asking, "Was that so wrong, Christine? Was that so wrong?"

She held onto him, overwhelmed, as her eyes filled with tears and burned over. She couldn't speak.

.

It was like they would never leave the bed again. Man and wife had found a new way to further infuse their differences and similarities into one. When there was no time, nothing to do, and no one to see, leisurely time was infinite. They might have stayed there for days. Weeks. Maybe years.

Eventually, Christine's legs grew stiff and she was hungry. "Can't I get up?" she purred, stretching beneath him.

His half-face did not look as though he particularly supported the idea. "What is wrong with staying here?"

"I'm hungry. I have to eat."

He seized her ankle and slid down under the grey covers.

"Oh, don't be so insulted." She kicked at him. "Come with me."

"I think you should stay here," he said silkily.

"We will die if we don't eat."

"Sometimes, it feels like I'm dying." He thought for a moment. "I'd gladly die like this."

"I'd gladly not die at all."

"Just think," he said, his voice warm and sultry. "If you were upstairs, you would still have rehearsals, human things, mundane rituals, and interfering people, all which would lesson our time together."

She capitalized on his momentary distraction from her leg to pull both legs up to her chest and roll over closer to him. "Are you trying to convince me that it is better down here, Erik? Because you need not do anymore convincing."

"I am trying to elaborate how we should cherish this time."

"And how could you think otherwise?" she asked, and he leaned forward and kissed her, his lips sure up against hers, as she dipped her tongue in and then licked his lips. "I cherish every moment. But we mustn't speak so—so morbidly. Like we will not have any more time together. We have years and years and years and years. All of it ours. Just us."

"I want this time with you," he pouted, unswayed by her words.

"'Time with me'," she repeated. "Spare me a few minutes while I go into the kitchen. And I must change out of this old shift. Let me put on something nice for you."

"It will be coming off, anyway."

"Oh hush. You like visual anticipation, you know it."

"A few more minutes longer," he murmured, and he went down under the sheets again.

Christine opened her mouth to say something, but was pleasantly side-tracked. "Oh…" she exhaled. "Erik, I don't think we'll ever fight about anything again."

"Why would I want to fight with you?" he whispered.

.


	19. Act XIX

**A/N: In celebration that Hugh Panaro is returning to Broadway to play the Phantom, I deliver this chapter earlier than I intended. EVERYONE CELEBRATE! After I somehow missed seeing him in 2005, I never thought I would get another chance to go and see him. I couldn't ask for a better Phantom for when I make plans for my tenth show visit in the fall. What a blessing! YAY!**

**.**

It came to an end too soon, their content and agreeable marriage life. It ended in the form of a limp, tattered soldier that Erik dragged in.

He had left for only a few hours while Christine wondered aimlessly around the house like she usually did without him, when he stormed in.

"Christine!" he thundered. "Christine!"

She promptly arrived in the gold room to see him more than irritated and nearly crawling out of his own skin.

"Yes?" she said sweetly.

He threw her a filthy look. "So, go on and give me permission. Look what you've done to me – look what you've done! I must consult you first! Tell me I can kill him. I need to hear you say it!"

She peeked over the couch behind him and saw what she thought was an old sack of fabric or something similar. His words did not make sense. "What is that?" she asked.

Erik reached down and wrenched the thing up for her to see better. When he tilted it upwards, she saw the hair, and it hit her that this was not a thing, it was a person.

Another cavern-prowling soldier, probably around her age, with long brown hair that fell into his face and concealed most of it, so that it was impossible to fully make out his appearance. He was bleeding from somewhere.

Her hands flew up to her mouth—Erik had brought him into their _house?_

"Go on, Christine," he said firmly. "I cannot _believe_—I should not need to hear you—your permission—I shouldn't—let me kill him, Christine!"

She viewed the soldier with pursed lips. He was very young, and had probably been instructed just to pace the catacombs daily, expecting no harm.

"Christine…"

It was so hard to resist that voice. How many times had she given into it now?

But there could be something redeeming about this one boy. Youth was so innocent. Saving something innocent must count strongly against all the bad things she had done. If she could save him, it would not matter the faceless others whom she had allowed to die. All that would matter would be that she had saved him—she had given him life.

"No," she said.

His grip on the soldier tightened, like he was trying to keep his own hand from snapping the boy's neck. His eyes narrowed at her refusal and he moved his head from side to side very slowly.

"Did he see you?" she persisted.

His tongue traced his lips. "No."

"And he isn't seeing anything now. Put him back upstairs. He'll wake and never know what happened."

Erik stared, as though he were about to have some sort of fit.

"Did I not tell you," he hissed. "That you cannot pick and choose who attack? Who you defend against?"

She moved away from him. "You said… that was how you get hurt. But look at him… If he knows nothing, he cannot hurt us… Don't kill him," she coaxed. "Let him be."

"I couldn't bring him back upstairs," he muttered feverishly. "I could never do that. I can't set him free."

Taking small steps over to the sofa, she looked down at him and carefully brushed a few strands of hair out of his face to see him better. He was unfamiliar, but so very young. He did not stir.

Erik tensed beside her when she touched him. She saw how rigid with anger he was and the furious lines etched into his face. Erik did not know how to handle refusal. Erik did not know what to do.

"Let's bring him upstairs to one of the rooms," she instructed. "You can lift him. We can keep him here."

She led the way and surprisingly, he followed at once, dragging the boy behind him. The edge of each door they passed hit his face, making a horrible sound and leaving drops of blood at odd spots in the hallway, like a morbid trail. Clunk, clunk. Not in the white room. Not the library. Not the German room. Definitely not that piano room. Nor that piano room. Or the other one.

"Here is fine," Erik said shortly, learning his shoulder into one. It was completely empty, the walls unfinished, with a few lonely strips of wood in the corner.

Christine was not brave enough to protest this particular choice, or admit that she had been thinking about a room with a bed, at least.

He threw the soldier on the ground and turned on his heel right out. She twittered behind him as he locked it securely from the outside.

He turned to her roughly.

"Come to bed with me," he said.

They didn't make it downstairs. Instead, they picked a little green bedroom, with heavy quilts and covers. She arched, he moaned; she sighed, and they found each other again.

Afterwards, he dropped his head into her waiting arms. "I couldn't kill him," he said slowly. "I could have… but I didn't… I wish I had. I wish I could. I wish.. I wish…"

She calmed him soothingly and held him, tightly.

.

He left almost at once, telling her he would be back, but after what felt like hours, she got up and made to check all the downstairs rooms before she crept back upstairs.

The young soldier did not budge as she slowly unlocked the door. Very carefully, she approached him, when he suddenly launched himself at her.

Christine let out a startled shriek but held him off as he clawed at her. Rolling onto her back, he leaned forwards as if to hit her, and she wrestled with him, pining him to his stomach and sitting on top of him.

There was no way she could have overcome him if he had been at full strength, but the blood on the ground proved some sort of injury and weakness, and as soon as she had him down, he burst into tears.

Dust from the floor sparkled all around them and lightly flew around her hair. Hesitatingly, she leaned only slightly away from him and turned him over. Upon seeing her face, he stopped at once and stared at her, open-mouthed and choking slightly on all the disturbed wood particles.

"Who are you?" she said.

He moistened his lips and continued to gape at her.

She pushed him lightly, nervous by his unrelenting stare. "Who are you?" she repeated.

"You…were in the papers," he said hoarsely. "There was a huge funeral. My parents went. They were great fans of your work."

She remained silent, trying to decide if she was pleased or upset that she had been recognized.

"Who are _you?_" he pressed.

"I am no one," she said. "I am not here. You are here. I want to know your name."

His mind seemed to be working very fast, his eyes darting back and forth, before he relented and said, "Seth."

"Seth," she repeated. "You were unwise to come down here."

He said nothing.

"I will go get you some water."

She released him, and he did not attack her again. Instead, he watched her with vague wonder as she left. Continuously looking around for Erik as she went, she filled a pot with water and grabbed a few parcels of fruit to take up to him. Stepping quickly back up, she found him in the same place, his eyes closed, frowning.

"I want you to eat," she said.

He appeared disinterested in the water, but took the fruit parcel gingerly.

It was so unbelievably strange to see another person—a person down here, no less! It felt unreal, like two impossible qualities combined. He was not like Erik; he did not look like Erik, he did not dress like Erik, he did not move like Erik. She noticed everything about the way he moved, the way his face changed, the way his fingers wrapped around the food curiously.

"It is safe to eat, I promise," she assured him.

"Christine Daae killed herself," he said nonchalantly. "So do you expect me to believe that you are a ghost?"

Her stomach flip-flopped. "I do not exist in your world," she told him flatly.

The boy called Seth peeled back the wrapping and sniffed it. "They found your body. And there was a funeral. You are buried in the barracks cemetery. Your tomb is very fancy."

A mournful feeling raced through her, for it made her miss her father very much. "Am I buried next to my father?" she pressed. "The violinist?"

He looked at her with blank eyes. "I don't know," he admitted.

Brushing it aside, she shook her head and gave a small laugh. "Enough about me. I do not matter. Who are you?"

He did not look comfortable at this turn of conversation. His head dropped, his hair covering his face. "I am just Seth," he said quietly.

"How old are you, Seth?"

"Nineteen."

"And how did you come to be down here, Seth?"

At this, he would not answer. He sealed his lips and only looked at her in a wry sort of way.

"So, you will not tell me?" she questioned pointedly, brushing off her hands of the wood dust on the floor and rising to her feet. He watched her with wide eyes, as if she was an unreal to him as he was to her. "Very well. I suppose it does not matter. You are down here, and that's just how it is."

"And why are _you_ down here?" he called out when she was at the door. "Don't you know this must be where the Opera Ghost lives?"

There was a very knowing look in his eyes as he said this, and suddenly Christine did not trust him. The innocent visual she had built around him shattered. She lingered in the door, watching him closely.

"You do not know—_anything_ of what is down here," she said softly, with gentle venom in her voice. "You are in a place you don't know. A place that doesn't exist."

He watched her, looking not as sure.

Christine closed and locked the door, and turned straight into Erik.

It wasn't just his anger that sometimes startled her when she ran into him. Sometimes he was just very scary-looking. When he was half-hidden in the darkness, he was just very cold.

And sometimes he did not mean to grab her so tightly. Sometimes, it just happened to hurt.

"What are you doing?" he asked, and his voice was very straight and calm. There was nothing angry about it at all.

"I brought him some water," she said, stumbling a bit over her words.

He shook her. She rattled against the doorframe. "You were talking," he insisted.

"You never said I could not talk to him."

"Why do you want to talk to him? Are you getting lonely down here, with me?"

"No, Erik."

"Looking for someone new?"

"No, Erik."

He jerked her away from the door, still holding onto her. "You move through men a bit fast, don't you? Raoul, Erik, Seth…"

"How cruel!" she exclaimed. "My heart has _always_ belonged to you. And Seth is just a boy."

"Only a year younger than you, I hear."

He brought his hand up and gently caressed her face. Before he even opened his mouth, she knew he was going to use _that voice_. "You are not unhappy here with me, are you, Christine?" he asked in his silver tone that made her melt. "Please tell me you are not unhappy."

"Of course not," she told him.

His other hand, the one tightly holding her arm, loosened and traveled to the curve of her waist, tracing her hip all the way up to her breast.

"You love me, don't you?" It was more of a whine now.

"Of course." The words, although true, sounded mechanical on her tongue.

He pulled her closer and kissed her eyelids. "Sometimes I think you need to prove yourself better," he whispered harshly.

She kept her eyes closed and silently agreed.

Softly, he loosened his hold on her and stared down at her, his eyes almost gentle, like he was repentant of how he had just manhandled her. She looked back up at him, and wondered why she had been so blessed to receive this life.

He sadly touched her lips, and then turned and walked away.

.


	20. Act XX

She avoided Erik for a few days, out of spite, and it appeared he avoided her. Music worked its way through nearly all of the rooms upstairs—she couldn't escape from it. It silently interwove throughout even her most fleeting thoughts, demanding a silent audience. Seth heard it, too. On the third day, she visited him again to find him listening with rapt attention.

"What is that?" he asked in horror.

She gave him a disbelieving look, shutting the door behind her. "Music," she said in an exaggerated tone, shaking her head at his foolishness.

He looked aghast. "Why, it's—depressing! And _terrible_! It is the most terrible and crushing music I have ever heard in my life! How can you listen to such monstrosity?"

She hit him across the face, and he was slung back against the hard floor. Instantly, she was on her knees, pulling him back up, saying, "Oh Seth, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

He sat up, dazed, but said nothing else.

"You just are not used to it," she said apologetically, brushing his hair back and rocking him a little like a child. "It is the most magnificent, most beautiful music. Perhaps you just do not understand it. You're not a musician, after all." His eyes went in and out of focus a little bit. "Let me go and get you some more food and drink." He seemed to want to say something in reply, but his head rolled back and his back hit the ground. "Seth?" she said, leaning over him. A thin crack of his amber eyes showed under his eyelids.

A feeling of unease crept over her, and she shook his shoulders a few times before she left quickly and went straight down to the music room.

Erik did not look up when she knocked and opened the door. He said, "Now what is it?"

"Something is wrong with Seth," she said without preamble. His gaze flickered up irritably.

"I thought I told you to stay out of there," he said with soft warning in his voice.

"No—you never said that."

Erik thought about that for a moment, and then went back to his work. A few seconds of ticking time went by before she said, "Well? Aren't you going to do something?"

He looked back up, false naivety plastered all over his face. "Do something?" he said in mock surprise. "Do what?"

"I think he's sick! Don't be cruel!"

"My way of death would have been very quick for him," he said tremulously. "You were the one who chose to lock him up, thus sentencing him to a long and painful perish. So who is it really who is the cruel one?"

She stared at him, her lips parted in confusion.

He glanced up at her again, did a double take, and then focused on her avidly, his eyes snatching onto her in a glazed-like manner. "Look how beautiful you are," he hummed, gazing at her with that familiar-hungry look in his eye. "No, no—enticing. You are beautiful always. But now, you look particularly… enticing. You are magnetic." As if to prove his point, he rose up and came towards her with slow, easy steps. For once, Christine didn't think he was aware of how mesmerizing he was; he was responding to her, and she was responding to him. "Lovely," he finished, reaching out to her and pulling her intimately against him, and running his tongue over her ear. "Exquisite." His breath mingled with hers.

Positive now that he was not just attempting to distract her, and also distracted herself, she gave in a little bit and let him gingerly touch her for a minute. His hands ran across her waist to the front of her skirts and he exhaled in anticipation.

She tried to stop thinking about Seth, but she still felt that rush of defensive anger when he had spoken out against _their music_ and then horrible regret when she saw how weak and helpless her was. This was about _helping_ those who were weak and poor. This was about saving something that did not deserve to die. Perhaps all the others had deserved to die, but no, not Seth. Therefore, it was acceptable for her to protect him and watch over him.

Her complex thoughts muddled by her husband's touch, she said lazily, "But I know you can help Seth, if he is sick…"

He froze like she had scalded him, and his hands flew up to her shoulders, shaking her. "What did you say?" he snapped, his fingers pinching her, making hr eyes water. "Why are you thinking of him _now_, when I am holding you? _I_ am not thinking about him, I do not care about him! _You _should not care about him, you should care about us down here, for we are the only ones that matter!"

"Erik—"

He shoved her away and threw open the door so hard that it rebounded and nearly hit her in the face as she tried to follow him. "How could I let you make such a stupid decision? This is the stupidest thing I have ever allowed you to get into! I end him now—this is ridiculous!"

"No, no!" she cried hysterically, chasing after him on the steps. "Don't you understand? I do not _want_ to kill him!"

"You silly girl, I shall do it for you, that is why I am here. I am here to do the dark things you want, but shy away from. And I do not mind! I will do it for you, gladly! Now let—go!" He clawed her clung-in fingers away from him and pushed—she lost her balance and toppled backwards halfway down the stairs and landed horribly on the bottom floor. All of the breath was knocked out of her.

He was over her instantly, reaching for her, looking half horrified and half unsure about what had just happened. He lifted her up and pulled her arms to sit on top of her head, and she moaned, "Please, please, please, Erik, my love—"

He glared at her, even while he soothingly rubbed her arms where she had hit the ground. "That's right, that's all you want, is it not? To grovel. Just be submissive. Play your part and be the good one. Overcome me with your good intentions."

"Yes, yes," she rambled breathlessly. "I want to be the good one who saved Seth."

"And I want to be the bad one who destroys him," he said dryly.

"Yes, yes… Let me beg for him. Don't hurt him. Hurt anyone else."

His eyes were alight at her actions, whether patronizing or enthralled, she couldn't tell. "That's right," he crooned again. "My angel, my angel, tell me what you want…"

She crumpled at his feet in a dramatic fashion. "Help me," she begged.

A little shiver went through him as she half-heartedly pulled herself up using his legs. He seemed to give up with being standoffish and assisted her the rest of the way.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asked quietly, brushing her off and checking to make sure she was relatively unhurt. "Do not act like you're not in control. Who runs this world?"

"You."

"Ah, no. You and I."

"Yes, you and I."

"And so who, therefore, makes the rules?"

It seemed a trick question, but she still hesitated before she said, "You."

He smiled a ghastly smile and took her hands down from her head. "Such a perfect queen," he said genially, but she felt more like a servant. She pretended like she was going to fall back again, so that he reached out and cradled her. The shifts in his mood—from gentle to terrible—were easier to expect when she choreographed them. If she said something she _knew _would make him angry, then it was not such a surprise when he exploded at her; if she acted as though she were weak, she _knew_ he would not miss the chance to be her protector.

His arms lifted her higher to walk, and then he took her up and deposited her on the bed of the very first room in the hallway. Her shoulders were aching from the fall, but she kept her arms holding tight around him.

"What you never seem to understand is that you have nothing to fear from me," he said, his voice a caress in her ear.

"Oh, I understand that," she protested. "I understand that very well."

"Why do you sometimes look at me with such a look in your eye?"

"Because I am in awe of you."

"And I, you," he returned, kissing each inch of her face. He stopped her when she reached her hands out to his shirt, and then he crawled into the bed next to her.

"Come to me," she said unhappily, disappointed that he had pushed her away. "I miss you."

He said, "We are always one. Nothing can separate us."

A dull ache hit her as she considered those words like she had never considered them before. Separated? What would she do if they ever were separated? She would die, most certainly, that was unquestionable. One could not grow so emotionally attached to one life and then simply have it taken away and go on living. Erik was a life to her—a life she had always wanted, a life she had been afraid to choose. They were quite safe down here, but it was up there that she was worried about.

She grasped at him, this time successfully seizing a handful of his shirt and forcefully pulling him closer to her. "Don't leave without me anymore," she begged. "Don't leave me alone down here when you go up anymore."

He brushed her curls away from her face and cocked his head. "You are in a curious mood," he said matter-of-factly.

"No, I am serious. I don't want you to leave me. I don't want to think that one time you might not…come home."

"Why would you say such a terrible thing?" he questioned, his eyes darting all around her face. "Why are you worrying about this all of a sudden?"

She felt queasy, and she looked away from him. "I don't know. I just suddenly had a bad feeling."

"Well, I have bad feelings about things all the time. After all we went through to be together, do you think Fate would be so cruel to break that bond?" He stopped, and she could hear the unspoken word on both of their thoughts:

_Yes._

"Say nothing," he ordered, taking hold of her face and making her look at her. "Say 'nothing', Christine."

"Oh… Nothing. Nothing."

.

"Listen to how lovely these chords are," Erik said sweetly, cooing at his beloved keyboard as though it were his most treasured possession in the world. "Do you hear that progression, Christine? Do you hear how _lovely_ is it?"

"I do," she said restlessly.

The sounds from the other room were growing louder. She hoped he would start playing again, to cover them up.

Alas, it was too much to hope. "Christine," he said pleasantly. "If I continue to hear that thing, I will kill it and then remove it."

She stood up hastily and went to the door and into the room a bit across the hall. Even outside of the door, piteous moans and shuffling could be heard. The room was beginning to smell slightly, and Seth lay right on the middle of the floor, tossing and turning and crying out.

As soon as he saw her, he said, "Has it been seven days yet?"

She stepped across him, not wanting to touch him. His face was sweaty and had a grey-ish tinge to it that definitely looked unhealthy.

"Seven days?" she repeated quietly.

"Yes, yes," he gasped. "Has it been seven days?"

"Seven days of what?"

"Since I have been down here? Have I? Have I? Have I been down her for seven days?"

She paused, leaning forward to look into his eyes. The sweat bunched up and rolled off his face, even as he shivered. And instead of feeling pity, Christine mostly felt disgust. She wanted this thing out of her house, but she could not bring herself to back out of her resolve now.

"Several days?" she asked him. "Do you mean, have you been down here several days? Yes, you have."

"No, no—seven! Have I been down here _seve_n days?"

"I—I do not know. We do not—there is no days down here."

He laughed a breathless laugh and stared up at the ceiling. "Oh, to have been seven days!" he cried, his eyes rolling back a little. "Seven days! Seven days!"

"Why seven days?" she asked. "What is it about seven days?"

Looking slightly delirious, he rolled his head up and grinned at her. "They are coming for me in seven days," he said lazily.

"Who—who is coming for you in seven days?"

"They are," he said, smiling in a strange sort of way and then curling up and turning away from her. His breathing was very shallow.

In her head, Christine tried to count backwards the days Seth had been here, but she did not know one day from the next down here, when there was no morning or evening divider. It could have been three days, it could have been two weeks, there was no way of knowing if you did not see the sunrise and sunset.

"Seth, tell me what you are talking about?" she demanded, her voice rising hysterically.

"I didn't want to be the bait," he muttered, and he scooted away from her.

Christine didn't move for a moment, and then she smacked him very lightly in the face to try and get his attention. "Seth. Seth! You are making no sense."

He sighed.

"Seth!" she said loudly, and when he made no action as to respond to her, she climbed up, brushing off her skirt, left and bolted the door.

She half-expected Erik to be waiting for her, but no, she could hear him still in the music room. A strange, uncomfortable nervousness took root in her stomach, but she pushed it away.

.

It was this night that Christine discovered Erik was a sleep-walker.

Nearly asleep herself, she watched Erik suddenly rise up, looking at nothing. She blinked a few times and said, "Is something wrong?"

He completely ignored her, just sitting there staring at nothing for a few seconds, before he pulled his legs over the side of the bed and walked to the door.

She sat up, watching him in confusion, growing a bit annoyed that he was ignoring her so obviously. "What is the matter with you?" she grumbled under her breath, swinging her own legs up and tiredly following him out the door.

He went over to the black couch and paced back and forth in front of it for nearly a full minute while Christinw watched with her mouth slightly open, before stopping and settling down on it with a blank expression. A vauge idea that he was still sleeping crept into her mind and she advanced on him gently, sitting next to him and carefully held onto his arm.

He looked at her, without really looking at her, and reached his hand up to her throat and lightly stroked her skin while she said, "Erik, come back to bed."

He stirred a little at the sound of her voice, but then dropped his hand and let his fingers rustle though the fabric of her nightgown. She took both of his hands and hers and stood, trying to drag him up, and he followed morosely, his head down and his breathing heavy.

As soon as she managed to get him to lay down in bed, he shot up, looking at her with a bewildered eye as he saw her standing over him. "What are you doing?" he shot at her, pulling himself away as though she were going to infect him.

"You were…" she began, but faltered. "You were… sleeping."

"Of course I was sleeping, why did you wake me up?"

She held her hands up and backed away, going to her side of the bed. "I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "I was just checking…"

"Checking for what?" he asked crankily.

"Checking if… you were dreaming," she said quietly, and he gave her one last intense stare before he turned on his side and was still.

Upstairs, Seth could be heard faintly, crying for help.

.


	21. Act XXI

**A/N: Oh hi.**

**So let's pretend it hasn't been like 2 years and carry on, shall we?**

.

Seven days.

It had never before ocurred to Christine to count the days. There were no days down here, no nights, no time. She had never regretted anything so immensely in her life, because now her days were consumed with the mantra of the _seven days, seven days_ that Seth had spoken of, and while it was in her head, there was nothing else.

"Erik," she said quite hesitatingly one night, for he simply despised any talk of Seth. "How many days has it been since you... since you brought..._him_ down here?"

Erik did not look up from his music. He did not change his expression in the very least.

"This is important, Erik. Please. Do you know how long it has been?"

He still did not look up at her, but answered tersely, "Who can tell? You know as well as I do that there are no days down here. There is no time. There is only one endless night. Does that answer your question?"

"No."

He smiled a little, a tight-lipped smile that was void of any real happiness. It almost made him look old, Christine thought with a sudden sad feeling. In an ironic way, happiness aged him...

"If you bring up Seth again, I really might be forced to kill him," Erik said in the same flat, expressionless tone, with the same flat, emotionless smile. "He really is causing me much distress, and I loathe distress."

Christine looked down in her lap. She wished Seth were dead also. But she couldn't say that out loud.

She could only worry.

.

And when it happened, she knew.

She begged him not to go out. She pleaded.

But he would hear none of it. Christine highly doubted it had anything to do with any real desire to leave, but more so the distinct urge to disobey her. Since Seth had come, he had been childish, moody, and unruly. When he slept with her, he was less inclined to think about her at all. When she sang for him, he was cold. Seth was like an omen that had come between then, to warn them for what was to come.

He left in a huff, his anger stirred, and she cried by the door. She sat there, like a child waiting for a parent to come home, staring mindlessly at the wall and replaying _seven days, seven days_ over and over again in her mind. Until she heard the cries.

It was like a bell to Christine, and she leapt to her feet and up the steps, calling for Seth._  
_

"Seth! _Seth?_"

But Seth was no longer at the point of answering. His cold body lay still on the floor. She went up to him, shaking his shoulders, making his head flop and his hair scatter across his forehead.

Frustrated, she pulled him by the arms, down the hallway and down the steps, his body hitting each step unmercifully, certainly enough to wake any living person from the deepest states of unconsciousness.

But Seth did not wake.

Christine did not cease her pace, despite the very heavy weight, until she had pulled open the heavy door in the wall and dragged Seth outside with her.

As always, the emotion was readable in these tunnels that wrapped around each other, building echoes very easily and richocheting every timbre back and forth. The energy was palpable, but it was not as dark or as dreary as it had been in the past with new events; it was excited. Something good had happened. Something very very good.

She turned round and grabbed Seth by his arms and began dragging him outwards, away from the house and towards the noises. Each inch of ground she made was difficult and caused her pain, and she began to cry out loud, her gasps coming louder and louder until she felt she had no choice- she was crying out loudly again and again and she approached the opening.

It was like something out of play. Time and time again, Christine would realize how oddly unreal other people had become to her. They were like moving puppets, something that maybe was not controlled by her, but most definitely not being controlled by their own actions. It was a sick sort of posession to her, watching others move and live without knowing and experiencing the true life that she had learned to lead. And yet, at the same time, they brought about a certain sadness... a sort of longing for a life she had used to know.

The men froze.

"Stop!" one commanded, and he drew a weapon on her.

She stopped, standing before at least half a dozen men in a simple grey dress, holding onto Seth behind her. The were all wearing dark clothes and seemed to flicker in the light. She wanted them to know she was not real - they could not shoot her.

"Mother of God," another said, his voice raspy. "Is that Seth?"

The one lowered his weapon. His eyes widened. "Seth?"

And a third ran forward, knocking Christine out of the way. She released Seth, backing away, before the two other ones submerged on her, grabbing both of her arms and forcing her against the wall.

"Who are you, why are you down here?"

Christine screamed in reply, thrashing out both of her arms and legs and while one released her in shock, the other simply dug his fingers in harder, caushing a sharp jolt of pain to fly up her arm and into her back.

"Be quiet! Be quiet!"

She kicked him again, harder, and he released her, and she ran.

Behind her, one cried, "Don't shoot! Don't shoot a lady! Who is she?"

She was puzzled at their confusion. Surely they knew who she was... she was the ghost of Christine Daae! Had they forgotten her face already?

But there was no long place to run, as only a few yards away she came upon a much more sinister gathering.

Their weapons were not drawn at her this time, however.

They were drawn at the figure on the floor.

It was like her heart in her chest exploded on fire and heat spread to her entire body in a burning, ripping sensation, and it was so painful that she struggled to draw breath. Despite her twisted head reassuring her, _you cannot kill a ghost_, she knew, better than anyone else, that you could most certainly kill a man, you could shoot a man and he would die, and Erik was a man, and Erik was going to die.

Christine wished she could have been brave, could have done something, anything, but there was no much to do. It happened without thinking, without any time passing. She moved forwards and then someone was on her and there wasn't much more to think about in the dark.

.

The unfamiliar smell of something was what she woke up to.

Her eyelids fluttered. For a moment, she thought she was back in her house, her safe house, and perhaps had just fallen asleep in a room she did not often stay in. But something was very, very off about this room - this was not a room that Erik would have ever made.

And the person looking back at her would not be a person Erik would have ever allowed in.

She blinked.

So did Raoul.

She looked away from him to examine the dark green room she was in. It was distinctly unfriendly and unwelcoming, with absolutely no decoration and no furniture other than an old table and the green sofa she rested upon. This was most certainly not a home, she was sure of it.

"Where are we?" she asked.

At her words, Raoul dropped his head into his hands and began to cry. Christine stared at him, aghast, and said absolutely nothing. After only a few seconds, he looked up at her, almost in anger.

"What is this?" he whispered, his voice so unfamiliar to her now. "What witchcraft have I stumbled upon? Christine? Christine Daae is dead! I saw her, with my own eyes! I-I went to her funeral-your funeral! I laid flowers on your grave, Christine, what is this... What am I seeing?"

He stood and reached towards her, and she was too blank, too unfeeling to turn away. His hand touched her face, and it was very warm.

"Christine," he said again, his voice calmer. "How can this be?"

"I did die, Raoul," she explained, just as calm as him. His eyes never moved from hers. "You are right. Christine Daae is dead."

Without hesitating, he came even close, grabbing her face just a bit harder. "Are you mad?" he asked, but his voice was gentle.

"No. I am right."

"But you are here, before me. You are very much alive."

"No. I am dead."

Raoul released her all at once and turned to sit back down across from her. He seemed at a loss for words, and she smiled at his confusion, pitying him for not having the ability to understand. And it reminded her.

"Where is Erik?" she asked, and all of her panic fled back to her at once, choking her, and she rose from her sofa in total despair as she looked around anxiously, as if expecting him to be hiding in the room somewhere. "What have you done with him?"

He rose with her, taking her arms carefully and pushing her back down. "I did nothing," he said instantly, keeping her down and looking at her straight in the eyes again. "Sit."

"Where is he? You killed him."

"Erik isn't dead, if you're asking," he said immediately. "As far as I know, he isn't even injured. They are saving that."

Christine heard him, but she was not sure if she wanted to believe him. "Then where is he?"

"The same place you are," Raoul said. "The jail."

She paused, and looked around at the room again. "I'm in the jail?" she asked slowly.

"The physician's ward, yes."

"Am I hurt?" she asked innocently.

Raoul hesitated. "Perhaps not physically," he replied.

She scowled at him for this, losing her cool and collected hair for a moment to give him a dark look. "There is nothing wrong with me because I see things differently than you."

"How do you see things, Christine? Up until last night, I saw you as dead."

"And that shouldn't change!"

"It should, seeing you alive before me. And yet..." His face fell into a pattern of confused misery and he scanned her appearence. "You almost look dead. You are so frail looking. Your hair is so long." He looked down to the curls that lay spread beneath her. "You look like you are one of the wild. Your face has no color. You are not the Christine I remember."

She ignored his entire speech as a new thought came to her, one that she had forgotten. The conception of time, completely absent in her world, was suddenly about her again. "How long was I gone?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but stopped and said, "How long do you think you were gone?"

"Don't play these _games_ with me!" she retorted, rising to her feet and glowering at him. "How long was I gone?"

He did not even blink at her outrage. "You've been... dead... eleven months, Christine. You have been gone a very long time."

She sat back down.

"I hardly even..."he began, shifting his weight, shuffling his feet. "The opera's fiasco, I guess you could call it... was over a year ago. When I left you, I thought of nothing but finding you. Everyone searched to such an extent that they were convinced you must have left Pairs altogether. But I knew you were still below, hidden somewhere... I wanted to smash in the rocks, piece by piece, until I found you... They thought I was crazy. And yet, right as I had prepared to do it, there you were. You were found."

"I was found," Christine said dreamily. "The girl who looked like me."

Raoul's eye's crinkled- she had said too much. "It didn't only _look_ like you. It _was_ you. She wore your dress. She wore your hair comb. Your favorite necklace."

It took a second to hit her.

"My... what?" she asked very politely, her pulse racing.

"Your hair comb, Christine. The one you had. Your favorite cross necklace, the one you wore all the time? And the pearl bracelet that went with it. It was one of the key components in us identifying you. You-er, she had been dead for so long, it was... difficult to really tell by features alone. But when I saw the necklace, I knew..."

"My necklace," she whispered, her hand going up to her throat, although she had not worn it for many months now.

She had not had those acessories when she had been pronounced dead. They had been missing... all returned to her by Erik.

By Erik.

"I need... I need to speak to Erik," she said, ignoring her thumping heart that still raced beneath her fingers. "Erik. He is here. He is unharmed. What are you planning to do with him?"

Raoul shook his head. "I don't know why you keep asking me. I have nothing, nothing to do with this. I only came here a few hours ago, when I was woken up with the news that you might have been found. I only came to see for myself. I was certain it was a fake, but I see you and... I see you. And I see you alive. And... you are sick. And now I only wish to see what is best for you."

"You left me," she said, suddenly cold.

"I did not. You went off with him. You disappeared into the very wall. I did not stop searching."

"You did."

"Only because... because you were dead, Christine! I saw the body! You were gone!"

"As were you," she yelled, clenching her hand into a fist. "And what care have I for you now? Take me to Erik!"

It was as if her whole world had collided. She did not know Raoul, she did not know humans. She did not know where she was or why she was there. This was not home, this was not her abode, and the only one who she needed to see was Erik, was proof that this last year had not been some sort of dream. Her head leaned over and she began to sob unwillingly, bringing her hand to her face and clutching at her very soul.

"I will take you to Erik," Raoul said simply.

.


	22. Act XXII

The whole place was eerily quiet. It was not the quiet Christine had grown so accoustomed to- the quiet where there was always the sense of some sort of hidden energy, occasionally aided by the distant sounds of music. This was a dull silence, like a stopper on the piano strings. There was no vibration in the air at all.

"Where is everybody?" she asked of Raoul as he led her through the hallways. "Why is it so still?"

"It's the middle of the night, Christine," he said. "But you can imagine this will be very big news in the morning."

He stopped outside of a door and went to open it, but she reached out and touched his wrist to stop him. At this, he paused completely and looked down at her hand upon him, with a very unsettling expression. She kept her hand there until he finally looked up, defeated.

"What will they do to him?" she asked softly.

Raoul sighed. "Most likely, they'll hang him," he admitted.

Christine withdrew her hand. "Barbaric!" she exclaimed.

"They want it to be a spectacle. A celebration. This has been a long time in coming."

Without awknowledging him, she turned to the door and faced it for a moment. He stood beside her, seemingly understanding that he would not be accompanying her, but standing at the ready nonetheless.

"Am I a prisinor also?" she asked.

"I think more for questioning than anything else. What the public will make of you is an entirely different matter. To see you back from the dead... those things, there are no words for."

She ignored him. And she pushed open the door. And just as soon shut it behind her.

For a moment, she wanted to see if Raoul would pursue her.

He did not.

A man from the far back rose out of his chair, stepping forward into the fading light. "You can't be in here!" he said, but he stopped short when he saw her. "You," he said, and simply stood there with a confused look on his face, until he regained composure and repeated, "You can't be in here."

She didn't even bother to waste precious words on him. In the room were three, wrought-iron cells, all of them in an alcove that hid them from any sort of light permeating throughout the room. It was very childishly sinister, as though it were purposely designed to seem more foreboding than it really was. But it did not work on her - she knew what it was to be truly sinister.

But what interested her far more than the layout was what lay inside it; creeping forward, still ignoring the prison guard, she went right up to the middle cell and sank to her knees in front of it.

"Erik," she breathed.

The dark shape, barely visible in the terrible lighting, did not move. He sat against the far wall, sitting up in a position that was relaxed and yet not at ease. Her eyes scanned the contours of his shadows, looking for any physical harm done to him - and even just her careful view gave her a pull in her stomach towards him, towards the fiber of his very being.

Without saying anything further, she slipped her pale hand through the bars and extended it towards him, a silent, expressive invitation. Behind her, the prison guard seemed to see that she was to do no harm, and he retreated back to his desk, although undoubtedly still keeping a close eye.

She saw Erik move, the slightest amount, but he did not come towards her. She kept her hand out, a nearly irresistable invitation, but he still moved no closer.

"Erik, my love," she crooned in a voice low enough that they could not be overheard. "What happened?"

Because Christine still could not fathom what possibly could have occurred to have Erik caught in this situation. She had seen him escape from too many impossible ones to be able to understand what was different about this time. Was it perhaps sheer, overpowering numbers that had taken him down? Had they caught him at some moment of weakness? And seven days... what had Seth had to do with it all?

And at this, for the first time, she truly pondered Seth. He had been the one to forsee the seventh day, and what part had he had in it? If Christine had not brought him in, would this have not happened? What had she done?

_What had she done?_

Her heart pounded at this terrifying revelation, she she reached out more desperately not, her voice on the edge of breaking as she called out, "Erik," with such undeniable panic in her voice to be reassured.

He answered, "Go away, Christine."

How many times had she heard that, from his room or other place when he did not want to be disturbed? Yet this time was an absolute and unyielding rejection, and she could not understand.

"Erik," she said for the third time, this time, real tears springing to her eyes and catching in her throat. "Are you angry at me?"

She could see the edge of his face tilt up, as if looking towards the sky, and she wondered if he was wearing his mask.

"Please, come to me. I need to feel you. Are you hurt?"

"No," he said very dully.

"Please come here. Please come to me. I need you, more than ever."

"I forgot how cruel this world could be," he said quietly. "I forgot what your world was like."

"This is not _my world_, Erik. My world is with you, not here! My world is your world. Our world. Not this. This is just as foreign to me as it is to you."

"I did not say foreign," he said. "I said cruel."

The prison guard had risen to his feet again, but Christine turned and shot him a look and he slowly sat back down.

"Why will you not come to me. Why will you not come hold my hand. Tell me. What is the matter with you."

He remained sitting there for another moment before he very deftly moved without completely getting up and arranged himself in sitting position closer to her. His mask was not on, but he otherwise appeared to be unharmed. He sat cross-legged, almost like a little boy, and stared at her hand a moment before very carefully taking it between his in a candid way.

"How could I deny any request from you," he murmured, examining her hand like a doctor.

Although many things bubbled in her mind, she simply stared at him, the scars on his face somehow less gruesome in this odd lighting, throwing his jawline into a shadow that covered half of him in muted darkness. Mesmerized, she let him trace his fingers over her hand again and again, captivated and irritated by the nimbleness of his fingers against hers.

The prison guard was watching them again. She didn't care.

"What happened?" she asked again.

"Nothing, really," he said, almost shrugging. "There was many of them and one of me."

"But I have seen that before. They should have been no match for you. You could have evaded them."

"I could have," he agreed. "But I didn't."

"What does that even _mean_?" she demanded, almost withdrawing her hand. "You could have been hurt!"

"I could have been," he agreed again.

She could hardly take his absolutely emotinless attitude, and she didn't understand. "Why did you do this? Did you let yourself get caught on purpose then? Is that what you're telling me? How could you let that happen?"

Erik looked at her, and smiled with his thin lips, and she lost the ability to speak. "Hush," he told her, and he took one of his hands from hers and touched her cheek very gently. "You let me be caught. You let our world be invaded by them."

Her heart couldn't take too much more. Already, her chest was hurting and each breah felt closer and closer to some sort of hypervenilation. "Are you blaming this on me? Because I didn't want to waste an innocent life?"

"Innocent?" Erik asked. "No one is truly innocent, Christine. Not even children. Children are the foulest of all. Babies sin before they even learn to speak. There is no innocence in the world up here, in a world that pretends to strive for it. But we didn't have to pretend. We accepted each other for what we were. That is the life we will continue leading now."

"Erik, they are going to hang you tomorrow."

He smiled again, rather sour. "Any last words to me?"

"You killed that girl."

For once, he was silent.

"You killed that girl, the girl you promised me you didn't. You killed her because she looked like me. And then you stole my accessories so she would be easily identified. You lied to me."

"Oh, no," he said. "I did not kill the girl. I never lied."

"You did. You might as well admit it now."

"I will not admit it. I didn't kill her. She killed herself and I watched."

"You... what?"

"I didn't kill her. She killed herself and I watched." He repeated it with the exact same timbre of voice, ever syllable identical to the twin sentence before it. He simply watched her, and waited for her response.

"You watched her kill herself?"

"She had attempted it once before, when her lover had left her for another. I witnessed the whole sorry event, but the only thing that caught my eye was how she resembled you. I did not think of her again until I stumbled upon her a second time, in the same place in the tunnels, attempting to hang herself. It once again was not going very well for her - luckily, she accepted defeat and took the poison she had with her. A very common one, very easy to come by. Why she did not just attempt that one first, I do not know..."

"You watched a young woman try to hang herself, and then poison herself?" Christine pressed.

"All while sobbing his name. Such a dramatic goodbye."

"And once she was dead?"

Erik chuckled. "Well, I couldn't have a dead body in my tunnels, could I? Not without some sort of meaning to me. My world, my rules."

"You stole my things," she accused once again. "And put them on the girl so it would look even more like me."

"I concealed her for a few days, so her face would sink," Erik said matter-of-factly, as though he were not talking about the gruesome decay of a female life. "And then I moved her to a much more discoverable area, on a day I knew the Vicomte would be passing."

Christine paused, hesistant to press this unusual point. It was all so odd... Raoul had been completely forgotten, and to now suddenly bring him back was strange and startling to her. "Raoul was passing... passing what?"

Her particular point did not go unnoticed by him-his grey eyes narrowed and he stared her down with force as he replied with, "The entrance. To the old music room. The music room I had made for you, outside the house. How he paced there for months, as if he could somehow find where you and I had disppeared into the walls."

A silence fell between them, Erik cloaked in shadow, sat quietly, while Christine stayed crumpled against the grate of the bars, only her hand reaching out for him. The light from the desk behind her only covered half of her.

"They are going to hang you tomorrow." She couldn't remember if she had already told him this or not.

Evidently, she already had by the look on his face. His face... She had forgotten what he had looked like without the mask. It seemed as though it had been weeks since she'd seen him with it off.

"Tomorrow is coming soon," Erik murmured, and he very gently kissed her hand with his thin lips.

"I'll stay here," she whispered.

And even though she could not put her head on his shoulder as she wished, she laid her head against the bars where he was and they held hands.

.


	23. Act XXIII

Christine must have fallen asleep, because she woke up when she was prodded on the back.

"You. Get up. Get away from him."

She jolted backwards, away from being slumped into the bars. Erik was moved back from her, back against the wall where he had been earlier. He did not look at her. Stung by the fact she had been sleeping alone, she allowed herself to be raised by the guard men and glanced out the very tiny bared window.

It was barely dawn.

"Am I a prisoner?" she asked shortly of the three men who stood before her.

"No," one said. "But get out of the way."

For a fleeting instant, she wondered what would happen if she simply refused to move, protecting the cell and what was in it, but then the vision of them dragging her away effortlessly interrupted her thoughts and to stop a physical attempt seemed very silly.

So with every muscle in her body feeling like she was betraying him, she had no choice but to stand and step out of the way, her head down, her curls hiding her ashamed face.

Erik also did not hesitate to move. He rose instantly, and the three guard men recoiled from his face all at the same time. Erik smiled at them - a dry, bitter, angry smile - and it seemed to twist and distort his features into a very frightening expression indeed.

"Turn around!" one of the men barked at him, and Erik turned his back to them, rather as though he had no care to face them any longer. Christine didn't miss the glance they all three exchanged at one another - clearly none of them wanted to approach him, even if it was to bind him up.

And like a bad wife, she simply stood there and let them.

Erik didn't look at her like she was a bad wife, though. Once tied up, he looked rather bored. The three guards all looked significantly more relaxed once he was bound and seemed to feel they were back in control, judging on the way they shoved him towards the door.

"What is he charged with?" Christine asked curiously.

One of them turned to her, but the other two did not remove their eyes from Erik, bound in between them. "To be charged with? Oh Miss Daae, surely you of all people do not need to ask that question? What is he charged with? Should I speak of the murders from over a year ago - murders which you were exposed to, called upon to give testimony? The murders of Buquet and the great Ubaldo Piangi, may he rest in peace."

A strange sort of feeling, like waking up from a dream, seemed to hit her. "Buquet hung himself." Her voice was colder than she had intended.

"You- you were one of the ones who testified that it was a man known as the opera ghost! Have you gone mad?"

"Be silent," the other guard suddenly interjected. "Of course she has. Do not distress her."

Erik laughed.

"She testified, and is now acting as though she knows nothing! Perhaps this is not Christine Daae?"

"Who knows? I never recall seeing the girl."

"He is charged with murder from over a year ago?" she asked, their words bouncing off her as if they were nothing more than air; hearing, but not listening. "A single murder is enough to constitute a hanging?"

"As well as the kidnapping and... and...murder of Christine Daae."

Christine, too, sought to overcome the urge to laugh. "Well, here I am! Quite alive and quite here of my own free will! A charge dropped equals what change in justice? Such an interesting system our city employs!"

"As well as the kidnap and murder of Seth Remy," the guard finished quietly.

There was a pause, where Erik still stood there serenely, and all the guards seemed to sink a little in their skin in sorrow.

"Seth Remy," she repeated.

One of the guards made a violent movement with his free hand, as if slicing the air. "Yes, Seth Remy!" he said, his voice filled with a new sort of rage. "My nephew. My brave, strong nephew, who's time was not yet! My brave nephew, who so foolishly pursued that which he should not have, and yet he did not deserve the sort of brutal torture he was subjected to! Bait! Who chose my young nephew to become bait for this _monster_! I certainly did not! And I certainly will not hesitate to see this man hung by his own evil weapon until the bastard is dead!" He gave a shove and the other two men seized Erik. "Come along! I should not have to wait for this!"

"I killed Seth," Christine said.

The guards paid her no attention - Erik turned his head around and narrowed his eyes at her.

"I did, I killed Seth," she said simply.

They were almost at the door.

"Are you going to hang me too?" she asked desperately.

Erik rolled his eyes at her before they turned the corner and were gone.

She stumbled over her own thoughts, her own feet, and finally, put herself in the doorway, only to see Raoul de Chagny standing there with his head down.

"You," she said, and she had never directed so much of her anger towards one person.

"Me," he said. "I would assume you do not want to see this."

"You assume everything wrongly," she snapped. "You always have."

Raoul took a step back away from her. His eyes were very tired looking, as though he hadn't slept even a little bit. "I don't know how to handle you. This is nothing like the Christine I remember. Harsh words? Temper? It's like you're turning into him. I don't understand, we worked so hard to get you from his grasp, and now... how did you fall so willingly in?"

"You never knew me, Raoul," she said, fighting to keep her voice calm. "You never knew me, and how could you have? I never even knew myself."

"That's not true. I knew you. You were a sweet, mild, quiet girl."

"I could still be those things, Raoul. But when my father died, a part of me died. A part of me stopped growing, stopped learning, stopped changing. I could not mature. And it wasn't until Erik that I began to move on and become myself."

He shook his head in slow disbelief at her words. "No, Christine, you are sick! Your father's death did something to you, but I thought I could help it. I thought I could bring you out of your depression, but it seems like you only wanted to stay in it! This is unhealthy, this is strange, this is the likes of things this world hardly knows how to deal with, and yet, there I was, waiting for you at every possible turn!"

"Waiting for me was your choice," she said steadily. "I appreciate it, Raoul, truly I do. I know the pain I have caused you, but..." She turned away from him, her gaze out down the long hallway where her soul mate had been taken. "..But there are just some things you could never understand."

Raoul crossed and uncrossed his arms, following her gaze down the hallway. "He is a bad person, Christine - do you deny it?"

"No," she said. "But we are all bad people."

"But he is evil. He does acts of wrong you or I would never do."

"He became only what the world made him - and having no other choice, he embraced his only option."

"You speak of his crimes so lovingly."

"I love him."

Raoul put his head down and took a deep breath. "That is the most terrible part, Christine. I know you do. I know."

"Then why must you separate us?" she whispered, her voice filled with urgency, and she took a step towards him. "You know of his crimes, yet you know he has done nothing against me!"

"Against you, I think he has brainwashed you, lied to you, manipulated you, and ultimately broken you apart," Raoul said, taking a step back from her. "All for his own doing. He needed you, for whatever his reasons, and he was willing to take you no matter the cost. And now the cost is standing in front of me. Dear, sweet, beautiful Christine, who could have been saved... now completely lost."

"I killed Seth," she said at once. "I killed him and I had Erik kill others. My crimes are just as distorted as his. Hang me too, Raoul."

"Christine-"

"I want to be hanged. I want it."

"You are raving."

"Hang me, or I will kill myself, Raoul."

"How terribly ironic to hear those words from someone already dead," he said quietly. "Oh, Christine."

"We belong in a word you do not understand," she said, her words very close to breaking now. Tears that she had been holding back were now becoming impossible to keep at bay, and this very real fear that was enveloping her. "Please do not let them take him from me. Raoul, I was happy! I was happy there with Erik. I felt complete. I was doing the work my father wanted me to do! I had finally moved on, I was well again, and just because it was not your interpretation of well does not mean it was any less that what I deserved."

"You are raving," he said again, although with less certainty this time. He did not step back from her.

"Raoul, you could stop this," she begged.

"How?" he asked. "What say have I in this?"

"You know you could," she said. "You could stop them. At least buy us time. At least get a trial. A hanging? This is not right. You, who preach of rights and wrongs, know this is not right."

He was quiet, looking at her with his mouth slightly open. She could not tell if he was thinking or oblivious.

There were suddenly noises from outside. She had to go.

"Raoul?" she asked.

He very slowly shook his head, and finally came towards her. "I do not think you should see this."

"I... I have to be there with him!"

Raoul sighed. It was not exasperated. It was sad.

"I will go with you. I am afraid you may be accosted. It would be wise to stay low."

She had so much more to say, so much left to prove to him, but it all seemed to ridiculous and helpless to think of Erik, just beyond those doors. Her heart began fluttering. Panic like she had never known began to set in. This was happening. Erik was going to die.

Raoul came next to her, and very slowly, leaned down and kissed the top of her head. It was not romantic. It felt like a kiss she might have received from her father.

That comforted her, the tiniest bit.

Very gently, as if afraid of startling her or breaking her, he put his arm around her arm and began leading her down the hallway. Her breathing grew more and more erratic, more and more panicked in a way she had never experienced. This was happening. This could not be happening. This could not be happening.

He tried to stop her, but she did not allow herself to stop. "Are you sure you want to watch this?" he asked firmly.

"What choice do I have?" she replied flatly.

"The choice to not watch a hanging!"

But despite his words, he did not stop her, but kept walking alongside her until they reached the door.

It was a cruel sight. The sun had risen over the small cobblestone plaza that Christine had passed many times in her life. Seeing it was like looking at some sort of painting of an old dream she had once had. However, sinister add-ons had appeared with it - most notably, the hanging station off to the side. Surprisingly, there were not many people gathered around, although it was clear more were coming from the distance. Messenger boys could be heard yelling about it just beyond the plaza.

And there was Erik, simply standing there. He looked almost ordinary.

He looked almost normal.

Almost as if he had known she was coming out, he turned and the light illuminated his terrible face. Her eye contact with him was short-lived, as he immediately fixated on Raoul de Chagny, who had already let go of her arm and was standing with a few inches between them.

"Can I go closer?" she asked. Her mouth was very dry.

"If you want," he said.

"I want," she repeated, although her words felt very foggy and far away. He was close. They were just standing there. The executioner was tall and menacing, dressed all in black. She thought it was silly. He would not strike fear into Erik. But oh, how he struck fear into her.

Her steps were tied with the executioners process. With each movement they made towards Erik, was a movement her feet did to bring her closer and closer to this moment of destiny. She could not bear to watch Erik die, yet she could not bear to not watch.

_You must have a plan, Erik. Surely you know you cannot die. You are a ghost, after all!_

But he only stood there. And when the rope was placed around his neck, he still only stood there.

If there was more noise or more crowd, Christine didn't notice. If time had gone by, she would not have been able to tell. She only stood, very close, while Erik ignored her, allowing himself to be put in a situation that might cause his death - that would certainly cause his death. He was not bothering to run, he was not bothering to fight. He would not even look up to say goodbye to his wife.

Christine collapsed to the ground, sobbing.

She could not be alone, she could not be alone. She could not be without her angel. She could not. If he died, she died. They had been dead together once, they would be dead together again. They would not have a moment without each other, not even with this cold, unmasked stranger who allowed himself to put a noose around his neck...

Erik stepped forward. He turned to face the crowd, and his head was down.

_Angel of Music._

__He looked up for only a moment. Christine could barely see through her tears, but his grey eyes were not indicative of any emotion. He frowned at her tears, she could tell, and shook his head a fraction of an inch.

_Don't cry, Christine,_ he seemed to be saying. _I am your angel._

__But angels were not dead.

The crowd did not go wild, but grew quiet with a sort of anxious trepidation.

_Erik, no._

__Erik kept his head down.

_Please do not leave me._

__The executioner put his hand out on an instrument. This was happening. This could not be happening.

Christine looked up.

Three things happened very quickly.

For one, Erik rose his eyes and fully looked at Christine, at his wife, at his angel, his true queen. Before a single thought could be inferred, the instrument of death was strung, and the executioner pulled down the lever with a mighty thud, and there was single second where Erik was gone, falling down into the ultimate trap of death.

Thirdly, a very loud, ear-splitting shot rang out.

Everyone let out a scream at the loud noise. Shaking her head to clear the confusion, Christine pulled away one petrified glance from Erik to see behind her.

A gun was smoking.

Holding the gun was a very confused looking Raoul de Chagny.

.


	24. Act XXIV

There was a general sort of panic; a few people had screamed at the sound of the gun. People were pushing each other, everything was moving in a very rapid succession.

But Christine leapt on her feet and made two movements towards the front before a hand had grabbed her and ducked her under the way, past the arch of the church. There was not a second to talk, she only allowed herself to be pulled away.

"He went this way, this way!" shouted the voice of Raoul, and she spared one glance over her shoulder, to see him pointing in the opposite direction. If she had looked any longer, she might have been able to meet his eyes, but she had no time for that; so she turned away from him without a second thought and looked into the back of Erik.

There he was, leading her, guiding her. She should have known that it was not feasible to kill an angel, how absurd! She could have laughed at her foolish thought that is _might_ have happened, but it had not, and things were moving too fast for her to think about them anyway.

"Keep up," he ordered, but he was quicker than her and she could feel him pulling more and more incessantly at her arm, until they rounded a corner and both flattened themselves against the wall.

She threw her arms around him.

"This isn't the time," he said gruffly, but nonetheless, his hand came down and stroked the top of her head lovingly. The sun was truly beginning to grow across the skies and she stifled a yawn, thinking about the horrible night of sleepless stress she had endured, and how infinitely wonderful it would be to never draw away from his hold again.

But he had other ideas. "Get moving," he instructed, taking her hand again, and this time, walking beneath the arches of the old buildings. She knew they were going to take the back ways; people were beginning to appear on the streets and Erik did not have his mask. The rope still hung from his neck, frayed at the end where it had been sliced by the bullet. As they were walking, she reached out and caught the end between her fingers.

"What a surprisingly good shot Raoul de Chagny has," he said, and she could feel the vibrations of his voice in his chest. "I must admit, I was surprised."

"I was, too," she whispered. "If he hadn't... did you have a plan?"

He laughed dryly. "You are so accustomed to me having a plan. I certainly was not about to let myself be hanged in a plaza full of people. There are ways to get out of a noose, of course, but that had to wait until the floor had dropped. Assuming, also, that I had positioned myself in such a way to keep my neck from breaking. But once I had dropped out of sight, I daresay I had several plans. But young Raoul's was not one I expected."

"I did not expect it."

He gave a wry smile - it distorted his face in the very worst way possible. "I wonder why he did it?"

She clutched back at his hand as they were walking. His grip tightened by eventually relaxed, loosely cradling her hand in his. "I spoke to him before hand. I must admit... I rather lost my temper with him. It was so odd to see him again, Erik... He was a total stranger. I had hoped I would convince him to call off the hanging and let us be together. But perhaps he had other reasons for doing it the way he did?"

"I assume I could analyze his psychology for you for many hours," he replied steadily. "But I would be unwise to ever bore you in such a way." He grimaced as he looked down at the frayed edges of the noose. "This is nothing more than a dog collar."

"Where are we going?" she asked as they walked. "We can't go home."

"It was foolish for us to have ever continued staying there are all," he admitted. "We should have left as soon as we were able."

"It was not foolish to stay," she said. "It was too beautiful to leave."

They walked in silence for a while, and slowly Erik had relaxed his grip on her wrist and dropped into holding her hand. It was quiet except for the click of their shoes. Christine mourned all that had been left behind. Thinking about not returning to that world was traumatizing and yet... the reassurance that Erik was beside her made it not seem so scary. Perhaps the world she craved so was not in any one location, so much as it was in him.

They had walked several minutes in silence before Christine realized where they were. "Erik," she said. She wondered if she had to say anything more.

She heard him exhale, but it was not impatient sounding. "Christine," he said, and his voice was gentler than she was expecting. It was a lovely, intoxicating sound. "You never have given me a satisfactory answer with your obsession with a graveyard."

"I did," she replied at once. "It is out of respect to my father."

"Your father is not there. You would be paying him the same amount of respect by visiting any place in his memory."

Erik was not understanding, but she hated how his words almost made sense. "That is just not customary," she said stubbornly. "Tombstones are there for a reason. They are there as a marker for the person who has passed, a place for those still living to come and remember them."

"You can remember him anywhere, Christine," Erik reminded her, undeterred.

"Why are you so against this?" she demanded, trying not to let her frustrations leak through. It seemed silly to be irritated at the man whose life she had almost lost just over an hour ago. "I visited my father's grave every week all of my years at the opera."

"Yes," he said. "And that is why you were never truly able to let go."

"Now, I have not visited his grave in over a year," she continued, still trying not to snap at him. "And I have not _let_ _go_ of him any better. Your conclusions are incorrect. We are quite literally a street away. It would be foolish to not let me visit him."

She looked over at him as she said this, and could not help but notice how tired he seemed. She was on his good side - and from this angle, he was truly beautiful in every way, especially as the low sun gleamed off of his profile. But as his head turned, even a fraction of an inch, the mangled side was thrown into the light, and it twisted her to see.

"It would be foolish," he said slowly. "Yes... it would be foolish."

A wave of relief washed over her at those words, and she could not help but pick her pace the tiniest bit and this new, much-anticipated revelation. The large graveyard was oddly shadowed by heavy trees, so that even in the light it appeared as if in darkness. Her father's grave was deep in the maze of crumbled headstones, but she knew the path there with her eyes closed.

Erik was clearly somewhat familiar with the path as well, for he did not fall behind her, but fiddled with the rope that still morbidly hung from his neck, until he was finally able to pull it off.

Christine thought of the last time she had been here- over a year ago, on a very chilly evening, where she had felt trance-like and almost sick. It was that night she had gone to beg forgiveness from her father by being deceived by this so-called angel of music... but to speak of the devil...

If Erik was recalling the same moment, he said nothing of it. As they approached the over-grandoise structure, his hand loosened and he fell back.

"You go ahead," he said.

"Come up with me," she asked hopefully.

He shook his head, his lips pressed together. "Do it yourself."

She conceded, and turned her back to him. It felt very odd to see this place after so long. Perhaps she had been slightly afraid that it would have changed, but it had not. Very gingerly, she laid her hand upon the stone wall, where the bronzed name DAAE was visible behind the gate.

Her heart has experienced so much grief and anxiety and confusion in the last few hours alone, and it was incredibly calming to be near to her father at last. Her father had been such a stable person and had hardly even shown any distress over anything at all. In a frightening way, the many years had played havoc on her memory. Although she could still remember that his eyes crinkled when he smiled, but she could not remember exactly what that looked like. This was both horrifying and relaxing at the same time.

And she could not speak her mind about him freely, as she usually did, not in front of Erik- but she found that she could not think of anything to say, anyway. Her father had once belonged to this world, but he had left and departed to the next. She too, had left this world, but journeyed to a different one. It was such a crossroads that she almost could not believe that this tombstone held the man she had once called father.

She chanced a glance back at Erik, who had his hands in his pockets and was rolling a rock on the ground under his foot. "You are thinking about what I said," he observed, without looking up. "And you are discovering that I was right."

"No," she lied. "Sometimes I just like to think here."

He shrugged at that. "That is a normal thing to do."

"It calms me."

"But you're not finding the relief you normally experience," he noted. "Is this upsetting you?"

She refused to turn and look at him. "I don't know," she said. "It doesn't feel the same to me. Why doesn't it feel the same?"

"Because you were using it as a sanctuary before," he replied quietly, all too knowing. "And perhaps what it was the constantly plagued you has been settled."

"You are analyzing me!"

"You asked me a question," he said, unphased. He had stopped his restless pacing and settled himself up against the bark of a tree and crossed his arms over his chest. "For the past year, you have been trying to use his grave site as a place to resolve your anxieties. How were you ever to recover from them, if you had pined yourself away so much? You admitted yourself - you should have been coming here to honor your father's memory. And you were not. You were coming to appease yourself."

She turned away from him. "You are being cruel," she said softly. "I loved my father."

"I never doubted that," he said, very seriously. "But what are you really seeking from here, even now?"

"I don't know," she repeated again. "I just needed to be here."

"_Wanted_," he said quietly. "You did not need it- you _wanted_ it."

"What _point_ are you trying to make, Erik?" she asked, whirling around.

He uncrossed his arms and stepped towards her, like a panther advancing on its prey. "I wasn't aware I was trying to make one," he said in his velvety rich tone. It was not fair, why was he using his voice on her like that now? He kept towards her, and she backed into the stone wall as he pulls both his arms outstretched on either sides of her, locking her in.

"I am sure you were," she murmured, not meeting his eyes, but looking at the collar of his shirt, where the noose had so recently hung. The rise and fall of his chest matched with the low sounds of the wind rustling in the trees.

She finally looked up, his grey eyes looking at her.

"What are you doing, Erik?" she whispered.

He kissed her, but it was not very frenzied, or even very powerful at all. It felt different, to be kissing him up here in this world. There was a breeze, and light, and fresh air, and he was still keeping her locked into him, while his lips pressed into hers. It was extraordinarily deep- there was something about it. She reached up her hands and cradled his face, keeping him close to her as well, so that he finally dropped his arms from their prison and touched her sides very gently.

When he pulled away, she sighed and leaned her head back against the stone wall. He bent his head down, keeping her close for another moment, before stepping back. She allowed him to take her hand and draw her away. Without further ado, he immediately started leading her back down the path.

"Erik," she said. "I'm not ever going to come back here, am I?"

"Certainly, you will come back here, I am sure," he said genially.

She was not so sure. "Where are we to go now? How long do you think it will take before they start coming this way, looking for us? They might be on the other side of Paris for now, but you know they will not stop looking."

"For now, we are going this way," he said, and he put his arm around her shoulder this time as they crossed out through the graveyard.

She could have asked more questions, but she allowed herself to be led again as they walked, this time with a stronger purpose. It did not take long for her to recognize the pathways of Drimvere as they approached it- had they made it to the outskirts of Paris already?

"Yes, yes," she said to herself as they approached. "I almost forgot about Drimvere! It's so tucked away, Erik- they'd never find us here!"

He gave her a rather pitying smile. "We will not be staying at Drimvere," he said.

"Well... but... I suppose," she said, caught off-guard by her scattered idea. It loomed in the distance, and it truly was beautiful. Not as stunning as the castle she had left from, but beautiful in it's own way.

"I will miss our home," she said bitterly. She hated those who had drove them out of it. Already, she was longing for the comfort of home, the safe walls and the many rooms and Erik's bed, the many pianos, the colors, the clocks, the magic... All gone.

"Come up here with me," he instructed, and she climbed up the steps, entering into the drifted off castle. Cloths still covered most things, and though it was very beautiful, it was also very somber looking. Erik's style was written all over the place. "Say goodbye to it, if you wish," he told her. "And then you will have to go outside."

"Why?"

"I first found this place on a walk that I took shortly after I met you," he said carefully. "I thought for sure it was a sign- that one day this would be our home. I thought it was finally God saying that I deserved to be normal and live above ground. It was unusual and grand enough to fit my personal preferences, and I was convinced with enough effort, that it would belong to us one day." He came closer to her, and took her hands gently. "But Christine... I am ready to give up on that dream now."

"What?" she asked in shock, not understanding.

"Yes... my dream to be a normal man. Because with you, Christine... I am happy with how I am. I do not want to be a normal man. I no longer wish to be like other people. I have found a true contentedness with you, that no imaginary playtime will ever come close to comparing."

She smiled at his solemn eyes. "I have found my home with you," she whispered.

"Oh yes," he agreed. "We were not meant to be normal people, you and I. We do not belong in this world, and it would be silly to pretend that we did. Instead, we must face this as a new challenge."

"Where will we go?"

"We must leave France- put everything behind us." His eyes were distant, focusing on thoughts and visions she could not see. "There is nothing out there for us, but that is fine. This world has nothing to offer. But perhaps..." He reached out an stroked a bit of hair out of her eyes. "... Perhaps we will have something to offer the world."

After this, she went outside to wait. She shivered slightly in the wind, although it was not very cold out, and stared up at the massive structure. What a lovely home it would have made...

It was difficult to see at first, but thin lines of smoke were rising, disappearing into the light of the sun. As Erik suddenly emerged from a corner, the first sight of flames began to flicker at the edges. He came to her, taking her arm to begin moving her.

"The whole structure will not burn," he explained. "But the smoke will attract attention soon enough. We must be going. I know ways to travel- our first priority is to get far away from Paris. We should travel on foot the whole way, I know routes that would be impossible to track, even if anyone did bother to try. I tire of their curiosity in us, darling- why can they not leave us alone?"

He sounded almost like the pouting of a small child, and she reached out as he just had and stroked his hair. "Do not fret," she said. "I trust your way." She noticed something in his hand and she reached down to it. "What is it you have?"

He held out his hand and displayed one lone, white candle.

"In case we lose our way in the dark," he explained simply.


	25. Act XXV

EPILOGUE:

On the morning of May 12th, a death was reported. An impromptu hanging trial had been delayed due to elevated crisis circumstances- but as the guilty attempted to flee, he was shot to death by the sir Raoul de Chagny. They say it was an unknown man, who was being charged with kidnapping of a young girl. They say his warden went mad at his death and is currently in the care of a mental institution in Lyon.

Other stories circulated around the streets of Paris, as stories did. Some say that Raoul de Chagny had actually aided the criminal in his attempt to escape! These were flurried rumors that were not spoken very loud - to doubt the honor of one of the knighted would have been a grevious crime. Others whispered that the warden had actually escaped with her captor, others said she had killed herself shortly after the events had taken place. Some wondered if the guilty one had killed her himself. Some said they were both dead.

The stories took much more elaborate turns as they traveled through the ears of eager listeners. They said that the guilty man was none other than the infamous opera ghost, caught at last and brought to justice. Some say he had a new girl with him, another captive of his fancy, others say there was no girl at all, but simply the memory of a girl he had once taken, a girl named Christine Daae, who had taken her life a year previously, God rest her soul.

But the most chilling stories was that there was no hanging at all - that it had been a common man, and a common captive, nothing more than that. For those who truly knew the story of the opera ghost knew that a ghost could not be hanged. A ghost could not be caught. A ghost could not be anything more than a practical ghost, one who haunted the very depths of the Paris Opera House, who had a voice that could command all the beings of Hell, and all the scores of the angels. And when his young protegee took her life by her own hand, many say that she joined him in the down below, dancing through the vaults of a theatre, striking up a glorious duet that could only be heard when the stage was dark and the pit was silent.

Only one story claimed a path of complete lunacy, one in which there were absolutely no ghosts at all, but simply a man and a woman, who had come together by the most enticing of ways, and refused to be parted by any ways of this earth. He claimed, to dubious belief, that they had indeed lived beneath the theatre, but had escaped together to conquer the world. He did not know where they could have possibly gone, only that they were together and that they would remain so.

This story was from the mouth of Raoul de Chagny, and it was highly disregarded. A story with ghosts was much more interesting. A simple love story was common enough, but the tragedy of two ghosts in love was much more delightful to the senses. As a respected man, sir Raoul de Chagny was often reassured that his story was credible, and highly plausible... but they were simply words. Everyone knew there was no man under the opera. Everyone knew Christine Daae had been a sad, misguided little girl. Everyone knew the stories of the opera were just that - stories. To believe in one so heartily was only a lure for fools. Perhaps Raoul de Chagny had gone mad, they said. Perhaps he had truly lost his senses after the suicide of his dearly beloved. Perhaps his head had concocted the whole story for his peace of mind. Perhaps.

And yet, many years later, they say you can still hear a chilling duet that weaves it's way through the grand hall, heart-breakingly beautiful and almost tortuous to listen to.

It's only the ghosts of the opera. It's only a story told to children... There are no ghostly lovers beneath the great Paris Opera...

...are there?

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed reading. I enjoyed writing. **


End file.
